Blood of the Reich (45 page)

“Bless you. Good-bye.” The ring holding the key to the iron door was hung nearby.

While Amrita called out for help he rounded the Buddha, feeling squeezed by its presence, its consciousness concentrated inside instead of out. No Nazi statue would ever pose in such a pensive, passive, decadent way. Then he hid in shadow. He needed as much time as possible.

Three other young nuns appeared with bandages, cloths, and what looked like their own herbal medicines. The nuns lit lamps small enough to carry by hand and, Amrita leading, disappeared down the winding stairs.

Jake slipped back, looked quickly about, and slammed the iron door shut, locking it with the ring of keys. These he pocketed. Then he hurried to his room, scooped up his backpack, and crossed the nunnery courtyard. A nun said something to him in Tibetan and he tensed, ready to draw and shoot her through the eye if he had to, the horror of it making the others hesitate. His hand curled on the grip. But while he didn’t understand Tibetan, he did know one name.

“Amrita?” He held his other hand palm out in a gesture of confusion and nodded toward the gate.

The nun shook her head as if she didn’t know.

He nodded as if searching and was past her, out the gate, and down the mountain, cold wind snapping at his clothes. He hurried to the plain where the Land Cruiser waited, keys still in the ignition. Even if they realized where Amrita was trapped, it would take them hours to pry that iron door back open.

He’d put the pieces in motion. And he hadn’t killed anyone, he told himself, not yet. Even when surprised by Rominy’s tackle, he had aimed very carefully.

R
ominy’s tomb was absolutely dark, absolutely hard, and absolutely silent, except for Sam’s labored breathing. Terror was held at bay only by her mental paralysis; she was in shock at her own catastrophic misjudgment. Why had she followed
anyone
into the bowels of Tibet? Because of vanity, curiosity at her own heritage and importance, and belief that Jake Barrow had fallen hard for her. It had been the full-blown fairy tale, a kind of adventurous elopement complete with fake wedding ring.

What a fool she was.

The jewelry burned on her finger and she tugged it off, hurling it against the closed door.

It made a little clink as it fell.

She was going to suffocate and no one would even know where she died.

“Mu-thur-
fucker
!” Sam coughed, groaning. “I can’t believe that lunatic shot me.”

“It doesn’t matter, Sam,” Rominy said dully. “He locked us in. We’re both going to die.”

“It matters to
me
.”

Of course. Her guide was
shot
, and she was just sitting here, feeling sorry for herself. Attention, Kmart shopper. There’s a man bleeding to death right next to you.

“I’m sorry, I just feel so
dumb. . . .
Where are you hit, Sam? Can we stop the bleeding?”

He coughed again. “He hit me in the most vital part.”

“Your heart?”

“My iPhone.”

“What?”

“It was in my shirt pocket, under my jacket. The bastard just plugged two hundred dollars’ worth of hardware, bruised a rib or two, and made me feel like I’ve been kicked by a mule.”

“You mean the bullet didn’t go in?”

“I can feel it squashed in the ruins. All my contacts were in there.”

“You mean you’re not dying?”

“You just said I
am
going to die.”

“Well, yes, but from lack of oxygen or water, not bleeding. This is good news, isn’t it?” It was odd how his survival cheered her.

“Good news
how
?”

“I don’t want to suffocate alone.”

He was dead silent for a moment. Then he barked a laugh, a gasping chuckle, and then coughed. “Ow! Jeez, that hurts. Oh, man, what a crazy chick you are. No wonder you wound up with losers like me and Jake Nazi. Geez, I’m glad to accommodate you, Rominy. That will be another three hundred dollars, please.”

“Sam, I’m really, really sorry. I don’t understand any of this. I wasn’t with Jake on this at
all
. I mean, I was
with
him, but I thought he was a reporter and we were on this treasure hunt. I got . . . greedy, I think. I wanted to matter. And he babbled about atom smashers and funny little strings and it all seemed to make . . . sense. Until it didn’t.”

“I’ve heard of getting dumped, but man, that guy is
cold
. Why do women have such bad taste in men?”

“Because we hope.” But what had she even been hoping for? Excitement. Purpose. Love. Oh, God, how she
ached
.

They were quiet for a moment. Then Sam spoke again. “So what’s with the stick he grabbed? Is it a light saber, or what?”

“A magic wand, he called it. A wizard’s staff. He thinks ancient people knew about particle physics and could do advanced science we’d think was magic.”

“So now he’s a sorcerer?”

“My guess is he’s fetching for somebody else. If they really knew how such a thing works, why would they need an old one? I’ll bet he’s taking it somewhere to study. He wants to see if they have this power called Vril from Shambhala.”

“Man, I must be one lousy guide. That’s why I draw the lunatics.”

“At least you try.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“I think trying to do good counts. Trying to do bad, counts bad.”

“I’m just doing this because I ran out of trekking money. College dropout, drifter, slacker. But I speak a little Tibetan and here I am. Locked in Shambhala’s bowel.”

They were quiet. “Should we stop talking to conserve oxygen?” Rominy finally asked.

“If we do that, I’ll start to cry. No, better to curse that sonofabitch to the final breath. Maybe if we try hard enough, we can levitate our way out of here.”

“If only that were true.” But she decided to
try
, to not just wish but
pray
, to see if thoughts really could somehow affect the tons of rock hemming them in. So she concentrated, calling on the help of every Catholic saint she could remember, and Buddha to boot.

Nothing happened. It was as dark and confining as ever.

She could hear Sam wheezing like an old man.

She could feel the throb of her heart in her temples.

And then there was a clunk, a whir, and the door locking them in split in half and the soft, flickering light of carried butter lamps found its way inside. A miracle? Prayers answered? They blinked, from both the light and tears.

“Who’s there?”

A tall, slender, robed woman was silhouetted in the doorway. “It’s Amrita, Rominy. We came to let you out.”

They stood, balancing against the wall and then stumbling into the arms of the nuns. Rominy was shaking with deliverance, her mind whirling. Sam’s shirt was blotched with red.

“But how could you open it? He said it was a blood lock. He said it could only be opened with my blood.” She lifted her crudely bandaged hand.

“Or the blood of your ancestors.” Amrita smiled and lifted a vial. “Mr. Barrow never thought to ask if we’d kept something like this.”

“But you’ve never used it?”

“We were told to wait, for you. Now that Mr. Barrow is gone, we’ve got a letter that’s been waiting for you for a very long time.”

“A letter?”

“I think it’s time you finally got some answers.”

45

Hood’s Cabin, Cascade Mountains, United States

September 8, 1945

W
hen Beth Calloway pulled into the weedy yard of her cabin hermitage, ten thousand miles from where the nightmare had begun, the gas gauge on the ’29 Ford Woody was hovering on empty. The truck’s panels were stained and mossy, its bed holding only her backpack. No matter. It was interesting what didn’t matter when the end was finally near. They’d come sooner than she’d hoped, later than she’d feared. Once she read about the atomic bombings, she knew they’d want more magic. The world had gone nuts. She’d done her best, and now it was in God’s hands.

Whatever God really was.

She eased herself out from behind the wheel and stood, her knees almost buckling. Duncan Hale had been quick and she’d been quicker, but the bastard had still put the bullet in her gut that changed everything. She’d wrapped a girdle of bandages around her waist and worn a pea jacket to hide the bleeding so her neighbor Margaret wouldn’t be spooked any more than she already was . . . but Christ on a Crutch it hurt! Perversely, Beth smiled at the pain.

She’d known a man like Benjamin Hood was bad news.

And she’d still fly him anywhere, if she still had a plane.

Limping, she crossed the yard and stumped up onto the porch, wincing as she did so. She wished she still had the pistol, for comfort if nothing else, but she’d had to entrust it to Margaret to add to the other things in the safety deposit box. She couldn’t fight anymore anyway.

“I’m moving, Gertie—moving back to Nebraska tonight,” she lied to her friend. “You tell ’em you’re just running an errand for me, and don’t let ’em see the gun when you lock it in the bank.” She’d rehearsed these instructions many times in her own head. “Then you get my kid down to Seattle and leave her with the Sisters until I can come back. That hundred dollars will more than cover it, I know.”

“But why can’t
you
do it, Beth?” Margaret had wailed. She wasn’t the strongest of women, but there hadn’t been time for a better choice. Margaret was just five miles down the road, and Beth dared not risk more time or blood loss. Poor little Sadie, short for Palisade, would likely wind up in an orphanage no matter who she picked, but that was a better chance for safety than she had here. It broke Beth’s heart to hand her over, but it was a relief as well. Would it ever make a difference?

That was in God’s hand, too.

“And you mail that letter. That’s the most important of all. You
mail
that. You hear?”

“I will, Beth.” Her voice quavered. She was alarmed at the pallor of Calloway’s complexion. What trouble had she brought here? Why this sudden run back to her family? She’d always been a little fascinated by Beth Calloway, but a little afraid, too. “When you going to come back for Sadie?”

“When I finish what I have to do.”

But you didn’t get back. Not from eternity.

Beth knew the end had finally come that morning, when Duncan Hale had driven up in the pale light of predawn. His hair was greasy from lack of washing, his face city-pale, and his suit looked about as appropriate as a hickory shirt and caulk boots on Wall Street. But he’d skipped up her deck slick as Eliot Ness, badge out and hand in one jacket pocket, the snout of his little pistol poking against the fabric like a tiny erection.

Girl’s gun, that’s what Beth had thought. She’d slipped Ben’s heavy .45 automatic in her backpack before she opened the door.

Hale had been arrogant as snot, informing her that he was a by-god-genuine government G-man of some agency or other—who could tell which one, since Roosevelt and Truman had spawned all those bureaucracies?—and that he was looking for one Benjamin Grayson Hood, a special agent who’d gone missing for uh, seven years.

“You haven’t found him in seven years, city boy?”

“I have now, sweetheart, haven’t I? Or do you want to go to jail?”

She’d shrugged. “Sure, I can show you Ben. Or rather, what’s left of him. But that’s not what you really want, is it? Aren’t you after what he
found
?”

“I’m after both. Benjamin Hood has a lot of questions to answer. It’s a matter of national security, Miss Calloway. We live in a dangerous world. A very dangerous world. Hitler was bad, but Stalin is going to be worse. If there’s something that might help America, Uncle Sam has a right to it.”

“Does that include paying for that right?”

The G-man smirked. “Mr. Hood volunteered to bear most of the expense of his expedition himself. Nothing has changed that arrangement.”

“He never paid
me
, you know. I flew him there.”

“I can help you file the necessary paperwork for possible compensation.” He glanced around. “We’ll have to do it downriver. We’d need a typewriter.”

“I got all day.”

“You take me to Hood first.”

She looked him up and down. “He’s a bit reclusive. It’s up a mountain and down a mine. No offense, but you aren’t dressed to even trek across my yard.”

“He lives in a mine?”

“It’s safer that way.”

Hale looked suspicious. “Is there a trail?”