Island of Saints (20 page)

Wan thought it strange, as he gripped the revolver with both hands and sighted down its barrel, that it should occur to him
now
that he had never shot anyone. Except for snakes beside the road or target practice out on some stretch of empty beach, he had never even had the gun out of its holster. And it all seemed to be happening so fast.

“What's your name?” Wan thought he heard the stranger ask the young man in front of him, but Danny cried out and ran. What the man yelled after that, Wan had not been able to understand. However, when the stranger put the rifle under his arm and pointed it at the fleeing boy, Wan pulled the trigger. And missed.

The stranger turned, his mouth open in astonishment. Wan was about to fire again when he realized the man's hands were high in the air. Still pointing his revolver and never taking his eyes off his target, the deputy stepped carefully through the brush to the cleared driveway.

“Move!” Wan roared.

“Fine. Where?” the man replied in a funny voice.

A funny voice?
Wan yelled again. “Move! Move! Step away from the . . .”
Rake?
Wan lowered the pistol a fraction. He looked again. Yes, he determined . . . there was a rake at this man's feet. And not a particularly “rifley” looking rake, either. Just your ordinary, everyday rake.

Another thing, Wan noticed. The guy had his arm in a sling.
This will not play well at the café . . . Oh, boy,
he thought,
I shot at a cripple with a rake.

As calmly as he could manage, Wan lowered his gun. “I'm . . . sorry.” It sounded ridiculous, he knew, but it was the only thing he could think of to say. “I thought you had a rifle.” The man's eyes widened. “Oh, man. I am sorry.”

“That's quite all right.”

There's that funny voice again.
“Are you hurt . . . Ahhh . . . sir?”

“‘Sir,' is it now? No, no. What's done is done. No longer a challenge.”

Wan placed his pistol back into its holster. “Really . . . I am
really
sorry. I mean, I know sorry doesn't even begin to cover—”

“I'm fine. Truly I am. Don't give it another thought.”

Wan frowned. “You sure are taking this well, you know? After all . . . I shot at you.”

The man raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Yes! Yes, you did. But you missed. And aren't we all grateful for that slight deviation in your plan?”

Wan was shaking now and had broken into a cold sweat. “If you don't mind,” he said, “I think I'm gonna sit down here for a minute.”

“Yes, yes. You go right ahead. May I bring you some water . . . tea perhaps . . . from the cottage?”

“Water would be fine,” Wan said. “Thank you.” He thought he might throw up.

Josef was no less a bundle of nerves than the deputy as he walked toward the cottage. He was simply a better actor than Wan. The shot had scared him half to death. It was the last thing he had expected.

He had been raking under and around the cottage when he had looked up and seen a man standing in the driveway. Josef's first inclination, of course, had been to flee, but a swift dose of common sense, delivered just in time from who knew where, led him to choose a course of action that would appear much less guilty.
Smile and wave,
he had told himself, and that's just what he had done. He had also maintained the presence of mind not to speak in his normal voice with its Germanic dialect, so again, thinking quickly, Josef had called out a greeting in a crisp British brogue.

Josef had been confused and even more unnerved when the man standing in the driveway had not responded. But knowing he must carry on with what he had begun, Josef continued toward him. It was not until he was much closer that Josef realized that the man—a young man, it turned out—was mentally retarded. It was also apparent that he was terrified, though why . . . Josef had been uncertain.

What did I say that frightened him so badly?
Josef wondered as he entered the cottage and retrieved two glasses from the cupboard.
What did I say?
He couldn't remember.

Josef glanced out the window at the deputy. The other young man had returned and was now sitting with him. The two had moved into a patch of shade. Josef got another glass, filled all three, and headed back outside. His right arm still in the sling, he held the glasses against his chest with the left.

Be careful with these men,
Josef told himself as he descended the steps.
Remember to play the part . . . you are
a Brit.
And in the time it took Josef to approach the two and give them the water, he had invented the beginnings of a whole new life.

“Thank you,” Wan said as he took a long swallow. “I am really sorry.”

Josef eased himself down into a sitting position and smiled. “Please! Best forgotten. Certainly by me, aye? I absolutely insist . . . no more apologies.” Wan responded with a look that expressed his relief and gratefulness.

Josef turned to Danny and suddenly remembered what he had asked before the world had turned upside down. “Now then,” he said, “seeing as how we've diminished the risk of another loud bang like the one that followed my question moments ago, permit me to ask again . . . what is your name?”

Wan flushed, knowing this was only the first of what was certain to be a lifetime of sarcastic grenades casually tossed in his direction when this got out. Danny, however, did not notice the jab. He answered with his full name, “Danny Gilbert,” and threw out a comment of his own. “You sure do talk strange.”

Josef chuckled good-naturedly, though his heart rate had picked up a bit. The deputy, he saw now, was also staring at him with curiosity. “Yes, well, I would, wouldn't I?” Josef managed to bluster. “Not from around here. No, no. But then, you'd have guessed that, I'm thinking. Is that right, Danny?” He held out his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm Josef. Josef Bartels.”

The name Landermann, Josef had quickly decided, sounded much too German, while Bartels seemed a bit more British, didn't it? Danny shook his hand, and Josef swung it to Wan, who also accepted the gesture and gave his name.

“The Oxford Bartels,” Josef continued. “Yes, Oxford. Lovely place. All the Bartels from London originally, of course, but then . . . weren't we all?” he said with a wink. Josef laughed loudly, causing Wan and Danny to smile politely, though they hadn't the slightest clue what was supposed to be funny or what the man was even talking about.

“Yes, well, so,” Josef continued babbling, not really sure what he was talking about, either, but knowing instinctively that he was performing for his life. “The family made its name in Oxford. That's why we are known collectively as the Oxford Bartels . . . Perhaps you've heard of us?” Wan and Danny shook their heads. “No? Well, not surprising, I suppose, what? After you and the colonies went your own way, there really wouldn't be a reason to keep up with a history that wasn't yours now, say?” Josef laughed loudly again and slapped his knee. He was exhausting himself, or more likely, he thought wildly, cracking under the strain. Fortunately Wan spoke, allowing Josef to gather the wits he had left and at least take a breath.

“You know,” the deputy began, “with all that's happened, I don't mean to be rude . . . or overly suspicious . . . but are you a guest at this house?” While flustered and embarrassed by his mistake, Wan was aware of his duty and had not entirely let down his guard. He had purposely phrased his question so as not to reveal the owner's name.
Let this guy come up with it,
he thought,
if he can.

Josef fairly bubbled in reply. “Ah! Hah! Guest, is it?” He slapped his knee again. “Dear friend, more like. Not of Helen, mind you, no. But of her departed aunt Jean, God rest her. Friend of me mum's, she was.” Josef leaned in conspiratorially. “I did not know the woman was gone.” He rocked back. “Did . . . not . . . know.” Josef popped his lips. “Me own mum dead for a year as well . . . war on . . . no news. Me trapped here . . . hurt . . .” Josef indicated his arm in the sling. “Yes, and dear Helen . . . who knew? Honestly I had no idea Jean had a niece.” He frowned at Wan. “In any case, she was never mentioned by Mum . . .” Josef bright ened again. “Lo then, what? She has been an angel, say? Allowed me the couch and all that . . .”

The tension was transforming Josef into a thespian of rare skill—a talent, he was vaguely aware, that might actually provide freedom . . . or an appointment with a firing squad. The more he chattered, however, casting his British gibberish—“What? Say? Hah! Right!”—the more relaxed (and amused) he saw the deputy becoming. Soon they were all chuckling together.

During their conversation, and in answer to their queries, Josef filled in more blanks. He had been working in New York, unable to get home because of wartime, wanted to see his mother's friend, and was injured in a traffic accident on the way. He had only arrived last week, gratefully accepting Helen's generous offer of shelter . . . and only then because she was family, in a way, and he was hurt.

Every word out of his mouth, of course, was a lie. And in some cases more than others, Josef was aware that each untruth was his potential undoing. He simply did not possess the knowledge of how things were done in America to a degree that might allow him to fabricate his background flawlessly.

For instance, Josef had no idea about whether America allowed her citizens to travel freely during this time. What about foreign citizens? Should he have been able to sail or fly back “home” to England? He had not a clue. His biggest worry, however, was whether Helen could (or would) back up his claims if the deputy saw her before he did. And Josef assumed that he would.

If she were put to the test, Helen would be forced to deal with questions whose answers
he
had concocted. How long has he been here? Where is he from? How was he hurt? He knew you how? From where? The questions demanded answers that she could not ever hope to divine by logic, for Josef had conjured them from that flimsiest of substance—thin air. Suddenly Josef was more frightened than he had ever been in his life, but oddly not for himself. He was frightened for Helen.

HELEN WAS IN THE KITCHEN WITH MARGARET WHEN WAN AND Danny walked into the café. She had asked as to Danny's whereabouts when she had arrived, was told that he was with the deputy—but not where they had gone—and thought no more about it. When Helen met Wan's gaze, however, she felt a chill. Something was wrong. He didn't smile or wave a greeting. Neither did he frown. Wan simply looked at her.

But what Helen identified as growing panic was merely a precursor to the real thing. Moments later, true terror bloomed within her when Danny bounced into the kitchen and, having hugged his mother, said, “Hey, Helen! Wan and me went to your house. We met your friend.”

CHAPTER 13

WAN TOOK A SEAT AT THE TABLE BY THE DOOR, ACROSS from the register, and leaned back against the wall. Helen glanced at him again. He was still looking at her.
Is he
watching me? What has he done with Josef? Am I about to
be arrested?
Helen's first impulse was to dash out the back door and run for the truck, but no, she was sure Wan had covered that means of escape.

“What's wrong with Wan?” Margaret asked as she dried a plate. Danny had departed as soon as he had arrived, like an airplane dropping a bomb and flying away to safety, oblivious to the destruction in its wake. “Helen?” Margaret turned toward the younger woman.

“What?” Helen jumped, startled at the sound of the older woman's voice. “I'm sorry . . . what did you say?”

Margaret indicated the deputy with a flip of her dish towel and frowned when she saw that he was
still
staring in their direction. “I
said . . .
what's wrong with him? Have you ever known Wan not to sit at the counter?”

“Oh, Margaret . . .” Helen drew her aside to the dividing wall. No one in the dining room could see them as she grabbed her friend's arm and burst into tears.

“Helen . . . sweetheart . . . what in the world?” Margaret tried to hug the younger woman, but was gently pushed away.

“Margaret, I have done something horrible . . .”

Margaret stood openmouthed as Helen hurriedly dried her tears and peeked around the wall. Mystified, Margaret looked, too, and saw nothing out of the ordinary—save the deputy who was seated in the wrong location with a grim look on his face. “Does this have something to do with your friend . . . the one Danny mentioned?” Helen nodded and looked to the back door. “Helen . . .” Margaret spoke a bit more forcefully this time, hoping to get her attention. It was apparent that the young woman was on the verge of bolting.

Before Margaret could decide what to say, Helen took a deep breath, untied her apron, and handed it to her. “I am sorry to have disappointed you,” she said. “You have been good to me . . .”

Margaret was truly at a loss to understand anything that was happening. “Helen,” she pleaded, “honey, if you will just tell me what . . .” She made a helpless gesture with her hands as Helen, biting her lip, walked through the door to the dining room.

Wan watched Helen disappear behind the kitchen wall with Margaret. He knew that she had seen him watching her. Wan shook his head. He was getting angrier by the second.
At Helen?
he wondered, endeavoring to organize his thoughts.
No,
he admitted,
I am mostly angry with myself.
But wait a minute,
he rationalized,
she is not totally blameless
here.

Wan had no claims on her, he knew that, but she
had
to have known how he felt.
Okay, no claims on her, then what?
Hope? Well, yeah
, Wan thought. It was just a punch in the gut to find out she had a guy
living with her
right under his nose. They had been living together! How could she have done this to him?