Take Me Home (9781455552078) (20 page)

“It's all right,” he reassured her.

“I thought that we could talk this morning, but when I woke up, you were already gone.”

“With everything that's happened to me, my accident, and even meeting you, I suppose that I wanted a chance to think things through,” Peter explained. “So I went for a walk.” He didn't mention where he had gone or his reasons for going there. He hoped that she wouldn't ask; he didn't want to lie anymore, but now wasn't the time to burden her with the truth.

“Did it help?” Olivia asked instead.

“A little,” he answered truthfully.

“I wish I could say the same,” she admitted. “Everything is such a mess. I don't know where to start trying to put it all back together again.”

“Sometimes, time is the only medicine.”

“So until then, I guess I'll have to keep listening to my mother's criticisms,” she said, adding a short laugh. “She took great pains to tell me that I'm making a big mistake.”

“The only mistake you would've made was to marry someone you didn't love.”

“For my mother, that's not much of an obstacle.”

“Do you feel that way?”

Slowly, Olivia shook her head. “She's as wrong as she can be. To me,” she explained, “it's the only thing that matters.”

Gently, Peter squeezed her hand; in return, she clung to him tightly, as if the slightest of touches was to be treasured.

“Not marrying Billy wasn't the only mistake my mother accused me of making,” Olivia said softly.

“What was the other one?”

“Getting involved with you.” Her eyes watched his closely; he imagined that she was looking for something, for some reaction, but he gave her none.

“Did she give you a reason?” he asked.

“She said that you could be a liar,” Olivia explained. “She told me that you might be none of what you claim, that you could be dangerous, the sort of man who'd tell me whatever I wanted to hear, so long as you got what you wanted in the end.” She paused before adding, “Me.”

Peter's heart thundered louder than the storm that had led him to Olivia. Elizabeth could never have known it, but she was partly right; Peter
wasn't
who he claimed to be. He
had
been lying to Olivia, but not for the reasons she claimed, an important difference.

“Olivia,” he answered, raising a hand to gently touch her cheek. “I know that my coming into your life hasn't made things easy. For that, I'm truly sorry. But I swear to you that my intentions are honorable. If there's anything I'm guilty of, it's greed.” Olivia looked at him, confused, but he continued. “Ever since the moment we met, all I've wanted was to spend time with you, to share these feelings that threaten to overwhelm me with you. I wasn't just struck by a runaway truck, I was also blindsided by you, and I hope that I
never
recover from those wounds.”

Slowly, Peter leaned forward, intent on kissing her. Olivia's eyes closed in anticipation. But then, just before their lips touched, the Marstens' side door opened on squeaky hinges.

It was Grace.

“There you are,” she said when she saw her sister. “Is
ever
y­thing all right?”

“Yes…” Olivia answered, a bit flustered.

“Mom's getting ready to put a pie on the table. You better get a move on if you want any.” With that, she was gone, the door slamming shut with a bang.

“She has a knack for interrupting us, doesn't she?” Olivia said.

Peter smiled. “Seems that way.”

Still holding his hand, she tugged him toward the house. Their kiss would have to wait, but Peter didn't mind. He had hopes for what could grow between them, dreams that became larger with every passing day. But something still lay between them and that future, blocking it from sight. The truth.

How am I ever going to tell her who I really am?

O
TTO CROUCHED BETWEEN
a pair of bushes and stared at the back of the house. His stomach growled with hunger, but he paid it no mind. Minutes earlier, the sun had set, the shadows stretching across the ground as darkness descended. Just like when he and Becker had watched the cabin, he had to tamp down the urge to act. It was a struggle to remain patient. He slowly ran his fingers along his knife's handle. It was only a matter of waiting for the right time.

Tonight, an Amerikaner is going to die!

He had left his hiding spot in the hills intent on striking a blow for Germany. Keeping to the shadows and away from the most heavily traveled routes, he'd managed to make it into town undetected. He found a trickling tributary to the creek and followed it as it twisted and turned, rose and fell, snaking behind quiet homes. Once, he'd rounded a bend and startled a deer. Later, he'd aroused the interest of a mutt chained to its doghouse; at the sound of barking, he'd frozen in place, waiting until the mongrel lost interest. Finally, he scampered up a muddy incline and was where he wanted to be.

The house was large, in a style Otto had never seen back in Bavaria. Lights were on in the first floor but the upstairs was dark. From where he watched at the rear of the property, past a garden and beneath the limbs of an enormous evergreen tree, Otto hadn't seen anyone other than his prey walk in front of the glass. The man's police car sat quietly in the drive. Still, he imagined that the lawman had a wife and children, people he cared for. At one point, a door opened on the side of the house and he thought he'd heard voices, but from where he hid, he couldn't see clearly. In the end, it hardly mattered.

Everyone in that home was going to die.

Huck Perkins whistled along to Tommy Dorsey as he cleaned his plate from supper and dropped it into a sink filled with warm water. He liked the way the music made him feel, how the notes picked up his spirits after a long, tiring day at work. But most of all, he supposed that he was thankful to the music for providing noise in a house that would have otherwise been silent.

Now inching toward sixty, with more and more gray hair staring back at him in the mirror, Huck doubted that he'd ever find someone to share his life. There weren't too many available women in Miller's Creek, only the occasional war widow, and he doubted whether a younger gal would find what he had to offer all that exciting. He was going to be an old maid, or whatever it was they called a man without prospects. Times like this, when he was feeling a touch maudlin, he thought about Angela Freeman, a woman he'd courted more than a decade before. She'd shown an interest in him, but in the end he'd been too much of a coward to ask the necessary questions. Eventually, she had grown weary of waiting and accepted the advances of another suitor. Nowadays, whenever he saw her around town with her family, he tipped his hat and quickly walked away as a sickening feeling filled his gut. Not for the first time, he wondered if he shouldn't get a pet to cure his loneliness; at least then he wouldn't have to come home to an empty house.

“Maybe a dog,” he muttered to himself as Frank Sinatra began to croon from the living room.

At least he had his work. Being an officer of the law had always seemed to fit Huck just right. He was good at it, liked helping folks. People around Miller's Creek treated him with respect; their admiration was something he strived to be worthy of. Most days it was easy, just to the north of boring. He wrote out a ticket or two, hauled drunks like Sylvester Eddings to his familiar cell, and kept gawkers back as the fire department put out a blaze. But every once in a while, things got a bit hairier, like when a blizzard blew in or he had to break up a drunken brawl at the tavern. Huck found those times plenty exciting.

It didn't hurt that he had such a great boss. John Marsten was the best man Huck had ever known, even more so than his own father, a grouch of a farmer who never got over the disappointment of learning that his oldest son hadn't the slightest interest in living off the land. The sheriff was the sort of man Huck would've followed to hell and back. He was strict but fair, a leader who looked after the welfare of others before his own. Why, just that afternoon, he'd ordered Huck to take the next couple of days off on account of how hard they'd worked through the fires. Huck had protested, said that he wasn't tired, when in fact he felt weary all the way to his bones, but John had insisted. Finally, Huck had relented. In the morning, he planned on going fishing, just him, his rusty boat, a rod and reel, and maybe a couple of cold beers for companionship.

Maybe it wasn't such a bad life after all.

Just as Huck plunged his hands into the sink, he glanced up at the window and frowned. For a moment, he thought he'd seen something. It seemed large, bigger than a rabbit. He shook his head. It was probably a deer; they often came up from the brook at the rear of his property in search of food. For all he knew, it was his own reflection, or maybe the light behind him had shone off the glass. He was just exhausted and it was making him jumpy.

I wonder if this is what it's like for old Sylvester,
he thought.
Having imaginary things jumping at him out of nowhere.

But minutes later, as he was drying his plate, Huck stopped again. This time he'd heard something. It hadn't been much, faint over the sounds of swing music coming from his record player, but loud enough for him to notice. It sounded like the squeak of his side door. Setting down the dish, Huck wiped his damp hands on his pants and went to investigate.

Much to his surprise, the door was open a couple of inches. Huck was puzzled. Earlier, he'd gone out to his squad car to retrieve something he'd forgotten, the music drifting out behind him, but he was sure that he'd closed the door when he went back inside. Maybe something was wrong with the latch. Maybe he'd been in a hurry and forgotten. The breeze that stirred the leaves of his elm trees had probably been enough to make the door swing back and forth, causing the noise.

Whatever the reason, he pulled it shut with a click.

Back inside, Huck went to the living room and removed the needle from the record, stopping a horn solo in midnote. An uncomfortable feeling nagged at him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Something wasn't right. It was then, just as he was trying to wrap his head around what was bothering him, that he heard another creak; this time it was right behind him, close. He spun around and his heart almost stopped beating.

A man stood there, staring at him. For a moment, it looked as if the intruder was surprised to have been discovered, but the shock quickly left him and a deep scowl settled on his features. He was squat and thickly muscled, his clothes rough and mismatched. Huck had seen his share of men like this over his years as a deputy; mean, with no reservations about inflicting pain. To make matters worse, he had a knife clenched in a tight fist at his waist. Try as he might to recognize him, Huck was certain that he'd never seen the man before.

Silently, Huck cursed himself. He should've trusted his suspicions, the instincts honed by years of being a lawman. But it was too late to listen. Now, he was in trouble. When he'd come home from work, he'd done as always and taken his holster and gun off, placing them on a table near the front door. Now, when he really needed his weapon, it was on the other side of the room. The only chance he had was to talk, play for time, and make his move when the opportunity presented itself.

“All right, buddy,” he said calmly, holding up his hands in an attempt to preach for peace. “Let's take a deep breath and talk this through.”

But the man didn't seem interested. His eyes narrowed as his hand clenched the knife hard enough to make the thick muscles of his forearm stand out. When he spoke, it was low, guttural.
“Zeit zum Sterben!”
he growled.

Huck stared, dumbstruck. He had enough trouble speaking English most days, but he would've sworn that the stranger had just spoken German; it sounded an awful lot like the gibberish he'd heard Hitler babble in newsreels over the years.

What the hell is going on?

But before Huck could begin to contemplate the implications of what he'd heard, the man came charging at him. He didn't move like an angry bull, out of control and smashing everything in his path, but more like a deadly predator, a wolf maybe, focused, intent on his prey. Huck's eyes didn't wander far from the knife. He tried not to panic, to stay calm and let his years of experience facing danger, or what passed for it in Miller's Creek, guide him.

His attacker came in low and feinted to his left before suddenly changing direction and coming in from the right. He slashed the knife through the air, missing by only a matter of inches. But then he backed off a bit, cautious, as if he was wary of a man the deputy's size.

“Why don't you put that sticker down,” Huck offered. “It ain't too late to find a way out of this.”

But the intruder didn't respond.

Seconds later, the man came straight forward, jabbing with the knife as if he meant to skewer his foe. Huck once again barely got out of the way, but as he moved, he threw a punch of his own, clipping his attacker's chin; it wasn't much, but it staggered him, if only for an instant. Blindly, the man lashed out with his knife and this time Huck was too close to avoid it. The blade cut along the back of his forearm, deep, sending a burning ache racing across his flesh. Seconds later, the first drops of blood fell from his fingers to the floor. It hurt, but Huck didn't even bother to look at it; he didn't dare take his eyes off the other man.

I have to get to my gun! It's the only chance I got!

Instead of waiting for the stranger to make the first move, Huck decided to take the initiative. He made a fast first step forward, causing the man to raise his arms in a defensive posture, and it was then that Huck tried to bull his way to the side, willing to take another cut so long as he could get past. In those first two steps, hope flared in his chest. He thought he was going to make it. But instead of slashing at him, the stranger kicked out with his foot, caught Huck at the knee, and sent him stumbling. His momentum carried him forward, but he couldn't maintain his balance and crashed to the floor with a thud, the air rushing from his lungs.

He looked up, sweat running into his eyes, and saw that he was only a couple of feet from the table upon which rested his gun. All he had to do was get to his knees, draw the pistol from its holster, and then he could turn and fill this son-of-a-bitch full of lead. It was just a matter of—

But before Huck could even leverage himself up to his elbows, the man pounced on him. He felt the knife plunge into his back, the pain tremendous, overwhelming, searing hot, like a blacksmith's poker on bare flesh. Over and over, the stranger pulled the blade out before sticking it back in. Strangely, the pain began to fade; the heat became almost comforting. It didn't take long for Huck to feel nothing but a quiet peace. His eyes fluttered as the blackness closed in, enveloping him like a blanket.

Otto felt triumphant. Everything had gone just as he'd hoped, if not entirely as planned. Stealing into the house had been easy, but when the lawman heard his footfall, the creak of a floorboard giving him away, and turned around, Otto had been momentarily surprised, a strange turn of events. But his resolve had hardened; his burning hatred for the enemy had given him the strength to act, to kill the bastard with his own hand.

Once the man was dead, Otto had searched the house, looking for someone else, a wife or child hiding from the carnage. But it had been empty. The fool had lived alone. So he'd ransacked through cupboards and drawers for things he could use, slipping them into a knapsack he'd found in a closet. Finally, he'd taken the man's gun; with it tucked in the waistband of his pants, Otto felt more powerful than he had in a long time, certainly since his unit had been captured in France.

Now, he was more dangerous than ever.

For a moment, he'd considered burning the man's house to the ground, as the destruction would have hidden the corpse, but in the end had decided against it. He wanted the lawman's friends and coworkers to wonder what had happened to him, wanted their curiosity to finally get the better of them, and for them to make a gruesome discovery. Otto could almost taste their fear. By then, he would've moved on to something else, another act to strike them where it hurt most.

Leaving the scene of the crime, Otto drifted toward the center of town. Usually, he had no interest in seeing the place, but tonight, still riding high from what he had done, he was drawn to it, like a moth to a flame. Night had fallen and he no longer needed to hide himself, at least not as cautiously as he did during the day. He peered into houses, avoided the few streetlights that were lit, and soon found himself on the main street. American flags fluttered lazily in the night breeze, proudly displayed on most of the buildings he passed. The sight of them caused his anger to flare; it made him want to cut the fabric into pieces and jam them down the throats of these damn people, to choke them with their pride.

Suddenly, Otto heard the sound of approaching footsteps. So far, he hadn't seen anyone since he'd left the dead man's house. Cautiously, he stepped into the black shadows of an alley and waited. The footfalls grew louder until he saw a man coming his way on the opposite side of the street. He didn't look to be in a hurry; maybe he was out for a bit of fresh air. Otto was considering following him, possibly killing him, when the stranger passed beneath a light and glanced in Otto's direction.

It was Peter Becker.

Otto couldn't believe what he was seeing. It defied all reason. At first, he thought it was a trick of the light, a tease of the imagination, an illusion. But the more he looked, the more he knew he was right. It was in the man's gait, his build, and the few features he could make out.