Take Me Home (9781455552078) (17 page)

Being struck changed Billy. Gone was the raging, out-of-control bully who had badgered her with questions and accusations; in his place was the young man who'd always stood by her side, her friend. Shock and shame were written on his face. He still had hold of her arm. Billy looked at his hand, as shocked to find it there as Olivia. He slowly released his grip, like the jaws of a bear trap being pulled back; the moment Olivia could break free, she did, rubbing at the red marks on her skin.

“Oh, Olivia,” Billy said. “I'm so sorry…”

That was all he got to say before Olivia turned and ran. Sobs shook her body but she kept going through a storm of tears. From behind her, she heard footfalls, then shouts.

“Olivia, wait!” Billy yelled. “Please wait!”

But she ignored him. She kept expecting him to catch up to her, to again grab her arm and shower her with explanations and apologies, anything he could think of to make things right between them. But by the end of the street, when she turned toward home, running as fast as she could, there was only silence chasing her.

Billy watched Olivia run off into the night, soon disappearing from sight. He knew that he could have caught her if he'd wanted to, but as upset as she was, he doubted she would've listened to anything he had to say. He'd made a mess of things, maybe botched them so badly that they could never be repaired. If there was to be a chance to fix his mistake, he had to give her some time and space. Maybe tomorrow or the day after, Olivia would be ready to listen to reason.

“Damn it all,” he muttered to himself.

This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. Sure, when he'd proposed to Olivia, he'd heard the doubt in her voice, seen it in her eyes. He had even tried taking the offer back, wanting to end it on his own rather than be forced to listen to her reject him. But then she'd said “yes.” Still, even though he'd known that it all hung by a thread, he'd clung to the belief that he and Olivia would be husband and wife.

But now it was all ruined.

Somewhere down deep in his gut, Billy knew this had something to do with the stranger. He had always been jealous of any man who got too close to Olivia, who made her smile. Even when they were kids, when someone wormed his way into their lives, he'd struggle to pretend that nothing was the matter, but he had seethed inside. He knew that it was irrational, but right now, with what he'd just lost, he had to wonder…

Until Peter Baird showed up, everything had been going as Billy had hoped. So who was this man who'd swooped in and destroyed all he'd wanted? Was this man, this
lying coward
, willing to fight for Olivia's hand?

We'll just have to find out.

P
ETER STOOD BEHIND
the closed door to his room and listened. Late-morning sunlight streamed through the window, fell across the floor, and reached toward him to warm his skin, but he paid it no mind. He'd gotten up hours ago, dressing in the murky darkness of dawn, and waited patiently. Before long, the Marstens had woken but he stayed where he was. Peter knew that he could have opened the door, gone to the kitchen, and shared breakfast with the family, as he'd done for days, but he hadn't wanted to be asked any questions, especially any about his plans. He hadn't wanted to lie; he'd already done too much of that.

But he also didn't want anyone to know where he was going.

Long after Olivia left with her fiancé, Peter had been troubled by the fire John had spent the afternoon fighting. All he could think about was Otto and the promise the man had made to continue to wage war against America. Peter wondered if the Nazi was responsible for the blazes. He had to know if his earlier assumption was wrong; he had to find out whether Otto had left Miller's Creek or if he was still lurking about.

But Otto wasn't the only thing on his mind.

Peter had waited patiently for Olivia to return. He'd meant what he had said to her after dinner, that he'd wanted to talk, to maybe find the words to admit who he really was. But when she'd come home, there hadn't been time. He'd heard her mumble something to her mother, followed by her feet hurrying up the stairs, and finally her bedroom door had slammed shut. Since then, nothing. He hadn't even heard her come down for breakfast. As far as he knew, she was still in her room.

For a moment, Peter considered going upstairs and knocking on her door, but then he decided against it. Clearly, something had happened between her and Billy. Maybe she had ended their engagement. Whatever it was, she would tell him when she was ready. Until then, he'd give her the time and space she needed.

Slowly, Peter opened the guest room door. He listened closely, but heard nothing. Silently, not so quick as to attract attention, Peter slipped out the front door and was on his way.

It was time to find some answers.

Walking away from town, Peter turned north and headed back in the direction of the cabin where he and Otto had first taken shelter. It was the only place he could think of where he might find answers to what happened to the man. Maybe something had been left behind, some clue.

Every step Peter took seemed to lead him further toward the conclusion that Otto was responsible for the fires. One fire in a place like Miller's Creek was an accident. Another blaze on the very next day? That was suspicious. What were the odds? He'd noticed the way John had reacted; the sheriff had tried to mask his thoughts, but Peter had seen the look that crossed his face, as if he found his own words false. No, something sinister was at play.

He was just about to cross the bridge that spanned the creek when he was startled by the sound of a car's horn behind him. Peter spun around to find John waving at him from his police car. Just as when he'd been talking with Ruth Pollack, the Marstens' blind neighbor, Peter's first assumption was that the sheriff was coming for him, that his deception had been uncovered and he was to be arrested. Still, he stamped down his worries as John pulled up beside him, leaned across the front seat, and spoke out the passenger's side window.

“Morning,” John greeted him. “Out for a walk?”

“I thought I'd take a bit of air,” Peter answered. “Maybe head up in the hills, see a different lay of the land.”

The sheriff nodded. “Sounds good. A man stays cooped up inside for too long, he goes a little stir crazy. Besides,” he added, “I reckon a nice walk is easier on the constitution than rescuing horses from a burning barn.”

Peter chuckled. “It is at that.”

“You sure you don't want a lift? I could take you a ways out of town and let you walk back. There's a place you might like a couple miles down the creek, a pond set back a bit from the road with so many fish they practically fight for a place in the water.”

“No, thanks,” Peter replied as good-naturedly as he could. “I've got my heart set on climbing the hills.”

“Some other time, then.” But just as Peter thought the sheriff would head on his way, he said, “There's something that I'd like to talk to you about. I meant to mention it to you yesterday, but I was so out on my feet from the fire that it slipped my mind.”

“Oh, yeah?” Peter said as the bottom of his stomach dropped out.

“Hell, it'd be just as easy to show you rather than try to explain it,” John said. “You have any plans for later in the day? Say around two o'clock?”

Peter shook his head. “I should be back from my walk by then.”

“Great. How about meeting me out in front of the diner? What I have to show you won't take long.”

“All right,” he agreed.
What choice do I have?

Watching Olivia's father drive off, Peter struggled against his feelings of dread. Did John suspect? Was there something he'd said or done to give away his real identity? He couldn't know for certain, but since there wasn't anything he could do about it now, Peter resigned himself to wait and confront it when the time came. Until then, he had plenty else to keep him busy.

He turned back toward the hills and resumed walking.

Wiping sweat from his brow, Peter knelt behind a bush and stared at the cabin. Unlike his first trip down the hill to Miller's Creek, he hadn't met anyone on the long climb back up. Still, that didn't mean he was alone. He watched patiently. Minutes crawled slowly past as the sun inched its way across the sky, but Peter didn't move. Now wasn't the time to be careless.

When he'd first decided to go looking for Otto, Peter had thought that, if he found the man, he would approach him. But the more he considered what had happened, the more he knew that that course of action was dangerous. If Otto was still around, it was possible he had discovered that Peter had been staying at the sheriff's house, which would undoubtedly make the man suspicious. He would think that Peter had been compromised.

On the other hand, Peter couldn't talk about it with John, either. Until he knew for certain that Otto was still around, that he'd been behind the two blazes, he would stay silent. Besides, there was still the matter of revealing himself to Olivia. When the time was right, he would tell her, then her father. But first, he had to learn what had happened to Otto.

Finally satisfied that he was alone, Peter entered the cabin. Everything was as he remembered it. Drawers were open, their contents strewn across the floor. The containers from his meager meal still lay on the kitchen counter. Regardless, Peter searched the cabin from top to bottom, re-examined every cupboard, rechecked each closet, and again sorted through every musty-smelling drawer. But when he'd finished looking, he had found nothing that could be tied to Otto.

Back outside, Peter went to the work shed where he had broken free of his handcuffs. At first glance, it looked like the rest of the cabin, unchanged from when he'd been there last. But then the sun glinted off something, drawing his attention. There, on the rickety workbench, was the head of the axe Otto had broken in his desperate bid to gain his freedom. It was wedged into a crack between two boards. Peering closer, Peter noticed that the metal was stained with blood that had dried a dark red; more splotches dotted the wood. Kneeling, Peter searched the ground and found a broken link of chain. There was only one conclusion to draw.

Otto had gotten free of his restraints.

As his mind swam with what that meant, Peter tried to remain calm. Even if Otto had gotten loose he might still have hopped on a train and could now be hundreds of miles away. It didn't necessarily mean he was still in Miller's Creek.

But it sure makes it more likely…

Peter's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a stick breaking near the cabin. He froze, his heart pounding hard and fast. He'd been careful, had waited until he felt sure he was alone, but what if he hadn't been cautious enough? Was it Otto? If it was, what would happen if the Nazi discovered him?

Desperately, Peter looked around the shed, searching for a weapon, something he could use to defend himself. There, lying on the ground, was the axe's broken handle. He snatched it up; it would have to do.

He waited, his eyes searching, his ears straining to hear a sound. There it was again, another snap of a twig or branch. This time, the noise sounded like it was coming from the far corner of the cabin. Without any hesitation, Peter took off running, racing for the edge of the building. Out in the open, he felt vulnerable, as if each second took a minute to pass, as if he would be seen at any moment. But when he pressed his back up against the cabin's wall, trying to quiet his fevered breathing, there was no shout, no gunshot, nothing that would indicate he'd been noticed.

Cautiously, he edged his way to the cabin's corner, steadied himself, and peeked around. Nothing. Thinking that whoever it was who'd made the noises was moving in the opposite direction, Peter hurried forward; if he was quick and bold enough, maybe he could get the drop on him from behind. At the next corner, he stopped and listened.

It was then that Peter heard something that made his heart stop. Two more sticks were broken in quick succession, but this time, the sounds were coming
toward
him; Peter couldn't have said for certain, but from the nearness of them, whoever it was stood only a couple feet away. Had he made too much noise? Had Otto seen him approach and lured him into a trap? Either way, it was too late to run. Gripping the axe handle tightly, Peter stepped around the corner, determined to fight his way free.

Only it wasn't Otto. There, standing ten feet away, nibbling on a patch of early spring grass, was a deer.

The buck raised its head sharply, its antlers splayed toward the sunny sky, when it noticed Peter watching. For a moment, neither of them moved, but then the animal bounded away, frightened, its white tail disappearing in a clump of bushes. Once again, he was alone.

My nerves are going to be the death of me…

Eventually, Peter's heart began to slow. Dropping the axe handle, he went over to the ridge and looked down at the town. Miller's Creek appeared much as it had that first day he'd seen it, but Peter knew that one thing was different. Somewhere down there, whether still in her bedroom, working at the hardware store, or out walking the streets, was the woman he was falling in love with. In his heart, Peter was more certain than ever that Otto was responsible for the fires. That meant he was a danger to Olivia. No matter what it took, Peter knew that the brutal Nazi had to be stopped.

But that meant he had to find him first.

Otto looked down on the quiet town with a frown. Though he had reason to be satisfied, he wasn't happy. Not one bit. After the success of the first fire he'd lit, the very next day had presented him with another opportunity, one he'd seized with a vengeance. The home had been one among many, nestled in a neighborhood, not as isolated as the barn. It had been a risk to approach it in daylight, but his compulsion had been too great. Filling an empty bottle with kerosene, he'd stuffed a soaked rag down its neck, lit it on fire, and tossed it through one of the home's basement windows. He'd been half a mile away before the first black smoke had billowed into the sky. A few blocks later, sirens had cried out. He'd thought that the house was empty, but Otto wondered if he'd been wrong. Maybe there'd been a housewife with a couple of mewling kids, or a gnarled old crone too sick to get up, confined to bed, and they'd all burned in the blaze.

He hoped they had.

For all that and much more, Otto knew that he should've been feeling good, satisfied with the destruction he'd wrought for the glory of his Führer, but he wasn't. Something was missing. Unless he managed to burn the whole damn town to the ground, lighting fires wasn't big and bold enough. If he was to make these Amerikaners know fear, then he needed to give them a better reason.

Kicking a rock, Otto sent the stone skittering down the hillside. He stood to the south of town, opposite the cabin where he and Peter Becker had first sought refuge. Not for the first time, he wondered what had become of his fellow soldier. Surely, he'd been captured. Becker was weak; if it hadn't been for the fact that they'd been shackled together, Otto would never have taken the man with him after the train wreck. Right now, Becker was sitting in a cell or on another prison transport, his use to Germany ended. Otto hoped that he was faithful enough to his country to have kept his mouth shut, allowing Otto to do as he pleased.

Walking over to the rough lean-to he'd built out of fallen tree limbs for shelter from the cold spring nights, Otto rummaged through the items he'd managed to steal: a few dented cans of food, a smelly old blanket, some ill-fitting clothes, a browned newspaper that he couldn't read yet knew to be full of lies, and a rusted lamp containing a thimble of oil. Just as his frustration began to grow, he found what he was looking for.

In the third place he'd ransacked, Otto had found a knife lying forgotten on a shelf. Holding it up, he pulled the three-inch blade free from its scabbard; the afternoon sun glinted off the still-sharp blade. While it wasn't as useful as a gun would've been, it was better than having to rely on his fists. Turning it over in his hand, he measured its weight, and then slashed it through the air; a blow like that would gut a man. After all, he'd done it before. Returning the blade to its sheath, Otto stuffed the knife into the back of his pants, piled some scrub around the shelter to make it less noticeable, and headed off.

Picking his way through the woods, Otto followed a deer trail leading back toward town. While reconnoitering, he'd noticed a lawman driving around in his car, smiling and waving to everyone he passed, trying to convince his pathetic countrymen that he was keeping them safe. Surely this man had a family, someone he cared for, a wife and children. If Otto could find him and follow the man home, then he'd have his victim. If these people's protector was murdered, cut down in cold blood,
that
would frighten them. Then maybe he'd be satisfied.