Necessary Evil (Milkweed Triptych) (53 page)

The commander said, “Isn’t this what you wanted? This is the future you sought. The future you worked so hard to create. The only time line where the Eidolons never find you.” He took one last look around. “A girl can’t have everything.”

“Let’s leave,” said Marsh.

They stepped outside.

Gretel’s voice was weak and small. Smaller even than her tiny island. She asked, “Where is Klaus?”

“Your brother is dead,” they said in unison.

Marsh shut the door before her wailing could scare away the fisherman.

*

They arrived on the mainland in late afternoon. They retrieved their car in Thurso, and drove south. Miles of heather moorland passed without either man saying a word. Each was lost deep in his own thoughts.

Apropos of nothing but a need to break the silence, Marsh said, “I think we’ll move. After the war.”

“Oh?”

“Liv doesn’t want to stay in the Walworth house. Not after Will…”

“No. I suppose she wouldn’t. Neither would I.”

The men sighed in unison. First the commander, then Marsh, wiped his eyes.

“I wish I could have been there,” said the commander, referring to the funeral service. It had been a high-profile affair, given Will’s station and the grisly manner of his death. He had served the Crown; they gave him a hero’s burial. “I was a wretched excuse for a friend. I failed him at every turn straight to the accursed end.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Marsh, even though he felt much the same about himself. “Most of that never happened.”

“It happened in my memories.” The commander gave a rueful chuckle. “In the other … From where I came, he actually read his own obituaries at one point. I think he rather enjoyed that.”

Marsh said, “That sounds like Will.” They shared a laugh in memory of their friend.

The commander changed the subject. “The war could go for years yet,” he said. “Probably will. Nobody knows how it will turn out. Not any longer.”

“That’s as it should be.”

“Yes.”

“Still think we ought to have killed her,” said Marsh. “She was a monster, right down the line.”

“Trust me,” said the commander. “I’ve known her longer.” Marsh shrugged aside the frisson of discomfort that arose whenever the commander talked like this. He hadn’t fully come to terms with the situation. Never would.

“I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve imagined killing her with my bare hands. I spent decades on those revenge fantasies. But this is better. She suffers the most this way.”

“In that case,” said Marsh, “I hope she lives a very long time.”

“This is the worst possible punishment for Gretel.” The commander cracked his knuckles against his jaw; Marsh tried not to flinch. “Forced to live out her years like a regular human being? Merely mortal? She used to be a goddess. Gretel will never stop pining for the power she lost. Meanwhile, she’s forced to live from one day to the next like the rest of us. Will it be cold tomorrow? Will the sun come out? Will it rain?”

Marsh said, “It’s the bloody Shetlands. Of course it’ll rain.”

“Even so.”

“Yes.” Now it was Marsh’s turn to crack his knuckles. “Stephenson won’t pass up the chance to question her every so often. He holds out hope we might shake loose a few useful crumbs of information about the future.”

The commander shook his head. “You won’t. Not about the real future.”

“I know.”

“She might remember bits and pieces of the other, but even those are likely growing hazy.”

Now Marsh changed the subject. “How’s the knee?”

“Never better. I should have tried to shoot you a long time ago. Yours?”

“The same. Still don’t understand it.”

“Will could have ventured a decent guess.”

They lapsed into thoughtful silence again. Later, after Marsh turned west, the commander said, “You’ve missed the turn. This isn’t the road to Edinburgh.”

“We aren’t headed to Edinburgh. Well, I am. But not you. Look in the glove box.”

The commander reached inside the fascia. He found a slim leather valise. It was similar to one he’d retrieved from Spain long, long ago. Marsh knew, because he’d been there.

The commander caught the resemblance. He frowned.

“Look inside.”

He did. He pulled out a fake passport, a train ticket to Dublin, a voucher for a berth on an Irish ferry, and one thousand pounds sterling.

“Oh, very droll,” said the commander.

“Thought you’d get a laugh out of it.” Marsh paused, checking his blind spot before passing a slow-moving truck. “No joke, though. The travel documents are real,” he said.

“I sussed that out, thanks.”

“You can’t stay in England,” said Marsh. “You’re wanted for the deaths of Shapley and Pendennis, and the assault of a marine sentry in the citadel.”

The commander shook his head, sadly. “Necessary evils.”

“Stephenson won’t stop looking for you. Likewise SIS and the Security Service.”

The commander yawned, pinched the bridge of his nose. The boredom was an act, of course. Marsh knew he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving. He wouldn’t have been able to, had their roles been reversed.

The commander tucked the documents inside his jacket. “Speaking of the old man, what are you lot going to do? I’ve a feeling Milkweed isn’t long for this world.”

Marsh said, “Stephenson is casting about for a new mission. But I think we’ll ride out the war, probably stick around in one form or another for a while after that. We’ll be watching, in case somebody tries to revive von Westarp’s program. Red Orchestra has agents all over Germany.”

“They won’t find anything,” said the commander.

Marsh agreed. “Von Westarp’s work is no longer a threat to us. And with all the warlocks dead”—his voice hitched when he said this; he saw the commander swallow a lump in his own throat—“the Eidolons are closed off.”

The commander asked, “You’ve burned the lexicons?”

Marsh rolled his eyes. It wasn’t the first time the commander had asked. “Yes. They’re destroyed.”

“You’ll watch for interest in children. Newborns and orphans.”

“Yes.”

They topped a rise. The Firth of Clyde lay spread before them, and beyond that, the gray shimmer of the North Channel and Irish Sea. The commander started to fidget as they approached Port Glasgow. Still, there was little that remained to be said.

Poor old codger. He’d been through so damn much for the sake of Britain. But now he had to leave it behind.

Marsh walked the commander to the pier. He pretended not to notice how the older man kept rubbing at his eyes.

When he did speak, the commander’s voice was rougher than usual. “Give my love to Liv and Agnes?”

“Every day of my life.”

They shook hands. Marsh said, “I never thanked you properly for saving them. Doubt I ever could.”

“Yes you can. Be a good husband and father. Be the man I never had a chance to be.” The ferry blew two short, impatient bursts of its air horn.

“Well. That’s mine,” the commander said. He paused at the base of the gangplank. “If you do hear rumors of the Reichsbehörde technology, you’ll contact me?”

“You know I can’t.”

The commander sighed again. “Right.”

He climbed the gangplank. At the top he gave Marsh a little wave and salute. Marsh returned it.

Marsh stayed at the port until the late dusk of the northern latitudes, watching the ferry until it disappeared in the darkness. Then he started the car, and drove to Edinburgh. From there, he caught a night train to London. To home. To his family.

That December, America entered the war.

epilogue

23 October 1953

Kingston-upon-Thames, Surrey, England
The cricket ball nicked a fence post. It bounced up, still spinning, and landed on the pavement beyond the garden. The gate creaked open a few seconds later. A boy ran out to retrieve the ball. He looked about ten years old. He tossed the ball back into the garden, and then, after studying the gate for a moment, decided it would be more fun to shimmy over the fence.

He never noticed the old man, who watched from the car across the road.

The man had been there for several hours. He’d have to leave soon. His ship to Buenos Aires departed Liverpool in the morning. It wasn’t safe for him to stay. But he’d gone to a bit of trouble to find this house, and now that he was here, he wanted to see what he could see.

There had been another house, years ago. But this was larger than the place in Walworth. It had to be. It needed room for a family of four.

He’d come to London for a funeral. But it would have been too risky to stand at the graveside while they buried the one-armed man; he’d attended the ceremony with the aid of binoculars. After the burial, he’d discreetly followed a pair of mourners to their home on the outskirts of London. And he’d been parked outside ever since. Just to see what he could see. To hear what he could hear.

He listened while the boy reenacted Denis Compton’s recent career highlights. Great cricketers like Compton had come to be seen as a source of hope and inspiration for a country still emerging from a war eight years past.

The ball whistled over the fence again. It bounced on the pavement, skipped across the asphalt, and banged against the driver’s side door. It rolled to a stop in the middle of the road.

A girl’s voice said, “Now you’ve done it.”

The boy dashed through the gate again. But when he saw the dent, and the man in the car, he hesitated. The old man stepped out of the car to retrieve the ball. It was almost new. The shiny red leather had taken a few scuffs from the fence, and rain puddles had stained the bright stitches. The boy retreated into the garden. He looked ready to run for the house.

The old man called out. “Wait! Not so fast.”

He struggled to speak clearly, so the boy wouldn’t be alarmed by the gravely rasp of his voice. The cold, damp leather evoked an arthritic twinge from his fingers. He wasn’t ancient, a few years short of seventy, but he looked a fair bit older than that. He crossed the street.

“I believe this is yours,” he said, lobbing the ball over the fence. The boy caught it one-handed.

Like the house itself, the garden was a bit bigger than it had been in Walworth. There was a shed, of course. Furrows in the dirt marked the places where beets and carrots had recently been planted for the winter garden. Rye provided a bit of ground cover for keeping out winter-hardy weeds. The remains of a few mushy tomatoes, rejects from the autumn crop, dotted the garden. A girl sat on a stool beside the shed. She had turned thirteen in May.

The boy glanced at the dent in the car door. “What will you do to me?”

The man shrugged. “Nothing. It’s not my car.”

The boy stared at him. “What happened to your face?”

“Don’t be horrid,” said the girl.

She had long, dishwater blond hair. It had pulled free of the hair-slides holding it back, so the curls brushed her shoulder when she frowned at the boy. A handful of freckles dusted the pale skin of her face. She held a book in her lap. The title on the canary-yellow cover said,
Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack.

The boy said, glumly, “That’s my sister. She’s supposed to read the scores, but she does it wrong.”

“Hello, Agnes,” said the old man. “It’s wonderful to meet you. You’re growing into a lovely young woman.”

He stared at her so intensely that the girl blushed. She shrugged, frowned, and went inside. The man looked stricken. A snippet of music escaped the kitchen when she opened the door. A woman with a fine voice sang along to the wireless. The girl closed the door behind her. The music disappeared. The man made a funny sound and rubbed his eyes.

“Hey,” said the boy, tugging on the old man’s sleeve. “I didn’t tell you her name. How’d you know that?”

The old man pulled his gaze away from the kitchen door where the girl had disappeared. He looked at the boy. His eyes shimmered with tears, but the corner of his mouth quirked up in a half smile.

“What’s your name, lad?”

The boy’s gaze flickered from the old man’s eyes to the tangle of beard and scar tissue along the side of his face. He considered the question for a long moment, as though weighing consequences.

He stuck his chin out. “William Marsh, sir.”

“You’re quite a clever lad, aren’t you, Master Marsh?”

“That’s what my dad says, sir.”

At that, the old man smiled. “I suppose he would.”

“You know my dad?”

“A bit.”

Movement caught the corner of the man’s eye. Somebody pulled the kitchen curtains aside. He glimpsed auburn hair.

“I have to be off.” He raised a hand, tentatively reaching to tousle the boy’s hair, which was the color of wet sand. The boy tensed. The man lowered his arm. “Say hello to your mum and dad for me.”

He had just reached the car when the kitchen door opened behind him. A woman’s voice, the same voice that had been singing a few moments earlier, said, “William? Who were you talking to?”

“I dunno. Some codger. Said he knew you and dad.”

Footsteps scraped lightly on the garden gravel. The old man opened his car door. The dent screeched along the running board.

“Hello? Sir, may I help you?”

The man stopped. He drew a deep breath, then turned.

The woman gasped. She touched a hand to her lips.

The man said, “You have a lovely family, Mrs. Marsh.”

She swallowed. “Yes. I know.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “Thank you.”

He sat in the car. She gestured at the house. “Would you like…”

He hadn’t meant to speak to anybody. Hadn’t meant to be seen. It was dangerous to be seen with him; he was a wanted man. She knew this. He shook his head. “I have to be off.”

“Oh,” she said. “Do you have a family?”

He thought about that. “Yes. But they live far away from me.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

He started the engine.

“Wait, please.” She crossed the garden. Leaning over the fence, she said, “Are you well?”

“Yes. Well as can be.”

“Are you lonely?”

The old man looked down. He couldn’t meet her eyes.