Made Men (26 page)

G
itte bustled, trying
to stay busy.

Peering
from a window, she wrung her hands absently then sighed, loading more wood into
the stove. She gazed at the thermostat for a bit, not realizing it, then
shifted to look at
Poppy Flowers
.

Not her only van Gogh, but her favorite.

She
had stopped asking the boys where they got her paintings. They always answered
the same.

We’ll return it in due time. For now, it
is your painting.

Blinking
back tears, she glided past a Cézanne, a Matisse, and a Vermeer. In all there were
thirty-eight stolen paintings, but her favorites were those Ryker did to stay
busy. Rickard’s work was more precise, but Ryker’s were full of passion; no
matter what the subject the light, the detail, the proportions of his works
were without parallel. She stopped to admire the last to arrive … a nude of
Henna. Exposed, yet powerful and sensual, it felt defiant. He’d painted the
loveliest female form Gitte had ever seen.

Not erotic … reverent.

Gitte
pressed a hand to her lips. The depths of emotion, of understanding captured in
a few flicks and genius strokes of paint were fathomless. He wouldn’t have
asked her to pose for such a piece.

He would have done it from his
imagination.

She
had to look away.

Gitte
doubted her odd boy had ever seen Henna unclothed, but if he had, he had been
lucky. She was perfect—well, she
HAD
been.

Distinguished
yet weary, Gitte sat, kneading her fists to watch the seals on the large
screen. Her boys had rigged a few cameras in their underwater hunting grounds,
sheerly to amuse her.

Usually the flipper-clad clowns cheered
Gitte, but not today.

Even
the seals seemed out of sorts. The debris perhaps—it was probably loud
for the seals with the satellites and fuel tanks crashing into the water so
often.

At least the storm of space trash seemed
to be slowing.

Some
large pieces had fallen near the runway, smoldering: one the size of a car.

Anxious
to go look at the items, Gitte hoped to regain some normalcy—maybe check
on her garden—but she didn’t. She’d been ordered to stay inside until
they arrived.

There had been no word from them for
days.

Sadly,
she eased herself into a chair, pushed up her glasses, and sat down to re-read
their last correspondence. Tears flowed freely from the first word; they’d
learned Yiddish for her. It hadn’t taken them long.

Muter—unexpected events have occurred. You
will understand more
later
. Henna and her friend,
Stephan, are coming and will arrive shortly; fatigued, I expect. Please treat
them as family. I know you will. Henna is particularly important. You will see.
Shupp and Lead will accompany. Please put all on lockdown after they arrive. O.
hunts
Henna. Shupp will explain the weather. I will
follow soon. We must do what we’ve known for years. Please hide the nude in
case it may offend.

Affectionately,

Ryker.

Gitte
fingered the old scar buried in her silvered scalp then stood to look at the
odd things Osgar had left behind.

He was the true monster. Her little ghosts
hadn’t shown him to her that night. They’d held back.

Pressing
her knuckles to her mouth, Gitte tried to forget the blood. When he’d left,
Osgar had carted awkward bundles to the plane wrapped in canvas.

It could only have been the girl
.
Henna—parted out.

On
one of his last trips back from the old aircraft, Osgar saw her peeking through
a window and paused there. A fierce and regal demon
who
seemed to have tucked in his wings. Immediately, she’d tried to avoid his gaze.

There was nowhere to hide.

For
a silly moment she’d considered running to lock him out.

Could she have pushed the buttons fast
enough for the two-ton door to close between them?

It
didn’t matter now. She’d failed.

She had wanted to treat Henna like family,
but in truth they hadn’t stood a chance.

G
ravel pelted the
belly of the jet as the thrust reversers roared.

Slowing
dramatically, Ryker maneuvered the aircraft around twisted metal resembling an
enormous titanium caldron, nearly clipping a wing. The fresh dent in the earth
a few yards away indicated that that object, too, was a recent arrival to the
island.

Bonn’s
good eye turned stormy gray. Vai watched his face as Ryker flipped the lever,
opened the door, and dropped the stairs.

Were they here? She didn’t know.

Bonn
seemed hesitant to move. “Can you see her?” he asked.

“No,”
she answered. “I’m sorry. I wish I knew.”

“Stay
here, please, Vai.” Bonn stood, stooped. The fuselage was cramped for tall
people. “I want you safe.”

I want you safe.

Her
stomach flopped, and she began to sweat.

I want you safe.

Her
breath hitched. It was the phrase he’d repeated each time she’d seen his death
in a dream.

Vai
turned to hide her fear from the man she’d loved for years but met just
days
prior. She had to look outside. It happened outside in
her dream.

This was the place. It was happening.

A
lready beneath a
rocky escarpment, shoulders loose and ready, Vai saw Ryker. He ran with
the
Luger—a war relic—in one
hand. Waving at what looked like a swallow’s nest, part of the cliff slid away
like a huge rolling door.

Bonn
closed in as a woman with hunched shoulders appeared in the fort to meet the
lithe German.

Bad news.

Vai
watched the sky, her hairline and upper lip beaded in sweat.

It was happening.

She
should have kissed him. She should have said something more. Her lover’s
shoulders slumped next as Bonn got the news, and he started back for the plane
with his head low.

Vai
scrambled for the door, gurgling a warning.

“NO!
GO BACK! GET INSIDE!”

They had to. She could feel it
coming—now.

Vai
tripped down the steps, sprinting, racing fate. Bonn raised his head, confused,
then—mouth gaping—looked at the sky.

Clawing through atoms,
tearing through the
field, somehow she reached him and drove a shoulder into him, spinning his much
larger body, and ran for the cliff. He followed and the massive door slid
closed behind them.

Panting,
lungs on fire and blood in her throat, Vai pulled at Bonn’s
shirt—sobbing, astounded—her fingers in his hair, feeling him over
for damage.

A
heavy
thud
jarred the compound. Ryker
squinted through a small, thick window.

“Please
be OK,” she begged the universe. “Are you hurt?”

Bonn
was stunned but looked intact. Winded, incredulous, unable to catch her breath,
she flicked open the blade in her pocket and zipped off his pants faster than
arguing to inspect all of him.

That was it. The place. She had to make
sure.
She had never been wrong.
All it would take was a tiny piece to have
hurt him somewhere.

The
grieving woman turned to give them some privacy. Ryker neared, looking Bonn
over for the blood that he smelled in the air.

“Is
that what you saw?” Bonn asked her, looking his own legs over for wounds.

“Yes.”
She sighed, pursing her lips. “Over and over—” She breathed faster,
waiting for her heart to slow down. “That was the moment you died.”
Coughing—weak and sucking air—something stung.

The
German pulled on her shirt, which was soaked with sweat. Her eyes went wide
when Bonn gasped.

Not sweat.

Vai
looked down, panting, and confused. A bit of metal stuck out. Bright crimson
foam hissed around the edges of her chest wound.

“Oh.” Vai dropped her
hands to her knees, struggling with each breath. She gave Bonn a pale smile.

“It
was
me
.”

R
yker moved first.

Sweeping
her up, he eased her onto the table. Slicing Vai’s clothes away with her own
knife, he gave efficient, short orders to Bonn and the woman. They rolled her
back and forth to assess damage. The German palpated—pushed on her
abdomen and ribs—then stabilized the intruding metal.

“Put
pants on, young man.” Vai felt Gitte drape a quilt over her lower half, bound
to cover each of them back up. Re-dressed, clothes in shreds, Bonn held her
head up to help her breathe as the German worked.

“I…”
Vai
gasped
“…can’t breathe.”

She
heard a whistling, sucking sound come from her chest.

“My
dream,” she managed, wanting to touch his neck, but without the strength. “Your
neck—” Panting for air, pursing her lips on each exhalation, eyes tight.
“Love you.” She dragged a breath. “Strongman.”

“I’m
here. Hold still. I’m not leaving you,” Bonn promised.

He offered no sentiments easily
disproven like: it’s OK. Bonn knew what damage looked like
.
This wasn’t OK.

Vai
glanced at the other man, wondering how he knew what to do. She felt a little
drunk and disconnected.

Close
up, Ryker had such a strange face. His pupils shrunk to pinpoint diamonds as he
focused—primordial apertures. He hissed some encouragement, pulled the
metal out, and slid his finger inside of her chest in its place. Vai forced
choppy gulping breaths, but her brain felt calm.

If this was it, it wasn’t bad.

Bonn
whispered soothing words. The lady who spoke with clipped words draped a warm towel
over her breasts. Ragged, her breaths too shallow, Vai felt her neck and
abdomen tighten. Cramping, she smothered.

Ryker’s
diamond eyes were back, his
nose
a solid, bony fin.
“Here we go.”

Something
sharp pierced her chest.

A hissing of air.

Her
neck, stomach, and face relaxed. And her chest felt less like a rock. The room
became bright as her face turned from ash to pink and her hands came alive, her
lung expanding again. The German eased his finger from the space in her ribs,
taping plastic wrap over the gash on three sides. He pointed his bone of a nose
at Bonn. “Under the seat in the jet. Green metal bottle: oxygen.”

“Stay.
Stay here,” she said. Bonn’s eyes never left her.

“OK.”
He was streaked with her gore from his nose to his chest but didn’t seem to
care.

“I’ll
get it,” said Gitte, sounding relieved to have a task.

Her name was Gitte. How had she known
that?

The
German strode into the kitchen, methodically pulling open drawers. Soon, he had
fashioned a one-way valve and knelt beside her to pull aside the dressing. Frau
Gitte was back, slipping a mask over her mouth and nose.

“A
lot of pressure. Bear down on three, Vai. One, two—”

The pain was excruciating.

She
clenched her teeth. The searing heat from her ribs hit her like electric jolts.

“What
can I do?” Bonn pleaded. Gitte hovered nearby, wringing her hands.

She hadn’t been introduced, but Vai knew
her name.

Vai
gazed at the older woman’s face as Ryker sewed the valve in. Gitte wore the
lines of a happy life around her eyes.

She loves books
.

“You
can go search the plane for more oxygen tanks,” Ryker told Bonn. “Look behind
panels.”

“OK.”
Bonn stood, kissing her forehead.

Vai
felt herself flush, terrified. “Don’t go. Not yet.” He didn’t hear her whisper
through the mask.

 
“I’ll be right back,” He promised,
adjusting the oxygen on her face, his eyes wet.

“T
hat’s it honey,” Frau
Gitte said, her hand on Bonn’s shoulder. “That’s the best thing you can do
right now. I’ll go. I’ll find them.” Bonn blinked a thankful look at the
distinguished woman with silver hair. She held his gaze for a moment, winked,
and loped back through the door toward the plane.

B
onn wiped the back of
his neck, nervous and sweaty. Ryker whispered.

Frau
Gitte busied herself in the kitchen as Vai dozed, fitful and feverish, on the
couch. They had found some pain medicine in Henna’s bag, but Vai needed
intravenous antibiotics: Cefazolin. The antibiotic pills they had stocked for
Gitte wouldn’t help, though Ryker had been giving her Keflex anyway. The
nearest hospital was in Irkutsk: a hundred miles distant by boat. Gitte pulled
a chair to the table, joining the meeting.

“We
must decide,” Ryker finished.

“Decide
what?” The striking, silvery lady who treated Ryker like a son seemed
impatient.

Bonn
stared at the item on the table. Ryker hadn’t let the vessel out of his sight
since he’d pulled a dusty brass microscope from a shelf to study the contents
that morning—guarding the tin, ever since, like a brood hen.

“Eggs,”
Ryker said flatly, holding up the odd container. “Three of Henna’s eggs.”

He
cupped the thing in his hand, like a cold, scaly nest. “
Fertilized
eggs, so actually embryos.
One of my
brother’s tricks, no doubt.
Two of them are viable.”

Bonn
passed Frau Gitte the note the assassin had left.

In taking one, I’ve left you three.

What is your wish?

She lives on—in the tray.

“Eggs?”
Frau Gitte repeated, frowning.

“Fertilized
eggs, yes.” Ryker eased the container to the table. Bonn averted his eyes from
the tiny nightmarish thing.

The
old woman bristled. “So all that is left of the poor girl … is fertilized with
Osgar’s seed.” She stood, swung the door of the stove open, and tossed in the
note.

Bonn
puffed his cheeks and hung his head, rubbing his damaged eye, tugging at his
hair. He glanced toward the couch. The woman he’d met just days before lay
wounded—perhaps mortally—propped up to breathe on the old lady’s
couch, her lung only partially re-inflated. The last oxygen tank sat on the floor.

Ryker
followed his gaze, breaking the silence. “He left the equipment behind to
implant the blastocysts inside someone of child bearing years.”
Frau
Gitte’s mouth hung open.

In
a wink, she snapped up the eggs, pointing the metal box first at Ryker, then at
him. “You two may have lost her, but snap out of it. This is a game we don’t
play. It ends now.” Before they could react, she shot out a hand, swung open
the stove, and threw the container into the fire.

T
he waves slapped the
boat’s hull with a dull and rhythmic thump, each followed by the hiss of water
droplets landing as spray. Bonn held Vai tightly, wrapped in blankets wet on
the outside from the chop, drenched with sweat inside her cocoon. Her forehead
was hot to the touch and her teeth chattered violently.

Irkutsk
was miles distant when the fuel ran out. The boat, their only means of travel
with the jet in pieces (a chunk of a satellite the diameter of a hula hoop
having nearly transected the aircraft) blew in a wide, quiet arc. Land was barely
visible between swells. Gently, Bonn tipped a bottle of water to Vai’s lips.

She had become his world.

“I
won’t let you out of my sight.”

Vai’s
eyes opened, partway. “I know.”

“I’m
sorry for this.”

“That
is silly.”

“I
love you.”

She
hoisted her eyelids open more. “I love you too, strongman.”

Even
dripping wet and shivering, she was a vision. Vai blinked, appearing confused,
perhaps surprised by the quiet.

“The
motor?” she asked.

Bonn
nodded. “Out of fuel.”

Her
eyebrows bunched together. “What is he doing?”

Ryker
had stripped—seeming unaffected by the wind and spray. Many things,
including his clothes, sat in a pile in front of the pale German.

He seemed to be devising a plan.

Springing
to his feet, Ryker removed the cowl from the outboard. Cutting rope, he
threaded the
bolt holes
and stooped to ease the
makeshift sea-sock over the gunwale then into the water. Steady, he fed out
line.

The
boat turned. It didn’t
pull
them
along, but the makeshift device offset the wind. Bonn held up a finger and
watched the shoreline.

At least they weren’t losing ground.

Ryker
faced them. “Leave that out unless the nose of the boat changes direction
drastically.” He scanned the shoreline. “See that point? Use it for reference. Check
the time.” Bonn glanced at his watch. “In six hours, light a flare and hold it
high.” The thin man, despite his nakedness, spoke commandingly,
then
bent to rummage in the roll-top survival bag. “Five
flares, total. Every half hour after the first, light another.”

With
that, he dove into the water. For a few seconds his pale body shone beneath the
surface. Then he kicked both legs like a dolphin and disappeared. Bonn watched
for him to surface for a breath, but if Ryker did, the waves obscured him.

Shivering,
Vai’s eyes remained open. “I’m losing it. Did he … not have a … penis?

Gitte—the
holocaust survivor—gracefully exchanged a look with Bonn then knelt to
pat Vai’s bundled feet.

“Oh,
they are a different lot, my boys. They carry all manner of surprises.” She
looked out at the lake, where he now swam. “Don’t worry about him, dear. He
tucks things away when they aren’t needed.”

E
ach hour came and
went. The leggy girl shivered more … then less. They uncovered her at regular
intervals to check her breathing and offer her water, but she shook more each
time.

“Stop
doing that. I’m freezing. Let me sleep.”

Bonn
watched a speck of light on the horizon. It didn’t seem to move in relation to
the stars so he guessed, correctly, that it was a light on land. When the
current changed directions, the nose of the boat turned to the black expanse.

“We’ve
turned,” Gitte said. She’d noticed too.

Bonn
nodded. “Please hold her. I’ll pull it up.”

The
wind had died down. Objects still fell from the sky and each odd firework lit
the surface of the immense, cold lake with a different catastrophic glow. Once
he’d hauled the shell of the engine aboard, Gitte traded places with him again.
He held Vai’s head on his lap, shaking his head, jaw clenched, glancing at the
shore.

She was too still.

Gitte
had noticed too. “How is her breathing?”

“I
can’t tell,” Bonn answered, willing help to come.

When
they uncovered her, Vai gasped, startling them all. She clutched her blankets
tight.

“What
were you talking about at the table?” she managed, her chin clacking and blue,
shaking her head at the offered water. “Before we left?”

Gitte
watched his face. Bonn opened his mouth but seemed unable to form words.

Another half-hour had passed.

 
Holding a flare high, the matriarch waved
the sizzling beacon in wide arcs, wishing she could ram it down Osgar’s throat.

“Nothing
of consequence, dear,” Gitte said bitterly. “Boys get stupid ideas sometimes.”

T
he trimaran skipped toward
them as the first rays broke the cold horizon. Gitte waved the last flare in
wild circles. An air horn blasted back. In minutes the boat had slowed to
maneuver alongside their incapacitated skiff. Still naked, Ryker appeared at
the railing. He dropped a rope and pulled the smaller craft to an access
ladder.

“How
far out are we?” Gitte asked. “From help? She is quite sick.”

Once
aboard, she saw the answer. The stunned team of medical people regarded her
with wide eyes. Each wore the expression of a captive, yet sprung into action
once they looked over the railing at Vai.

Frau
Gitte caught pieces of their clipped Russian and wondered if they had
complained to each other. She remembered snippets from the concentration camps.

She knew captivity like they never
would. So did her boys.

Vai
was hoisted aboard next, tucked straight away into a soft bed inside the huge
vessel, IV fluids and antibiotics dripping into her veins. The Russian
physician appeared fascinated by the device between the girl’s ribs. Gitte saw
his demeanor change: fearful disdain became admiration, and he gawked
respectfully at Ryker, who hovered nearby.

One
of the others stooped to inspect the valve. “Leave it in,” the doctor commanded
in Russian. “Wash it well. We will change it out in the ICU.”

Ryker
cut the small boat free. In moments they sped, planing along the surface toward
a small cluster of lights, screaming past imprudent early morning fishermen
who—heading for deeper water—felt hurried to resume their work now
that Armageddon hadn’t succeeded in killing them or sinking their various
crafts.

Lights
flashed at the docks: police, an ambulance. Gitte’s boy beckoned the fit
American to the wheel.

“Ease
it in,” he said. “Stay with Vai—with Frau Gitte—” Ryker’s eyes
narrowed. He reached for her arm, sore from the lack of rest and the cold, and
grasped it gently. “Only travel when she is ready.”

He
kissed her quickly, his lips cold as always on her cheek, and dove overboard.