Rhineland Inheritance (15 page)

Then they rounded the final corner before entering the city's outskirts, and the peace was shattered.

It was not a full-control checkpoint. Just a trio of white-streaked MP jeeps set at point, with a series of striped barrels rolled in front and their tops set alight. Spread out around the barrels were a dozen or more white-helmeted soldiers.

“Hang on!” Pierre shouted, simultaneously hitting the brakes and spinning the wheel violently.

The jeep almost went over. It careened up on two wheels, teetered, then slammed back and did a grandiose four-wheel skid into the right-hand pair of barrels. They missed the MPs stationed there only because the men flung themselves out of harm's way.

While Jake was still frozen in the protective position he had taken across Sally, Pierre jumped from the seat. “Come on, move it, move it!”

Jake's muscles obeyed the urgency in Pierre's voice. He lifted a visibly shaken Sally up and out of the jeep. Before her feet were even in contact with the earth, Pierre grabbed her and sped toward the closest shadows. Jake was immediately after them.

The MPs' stunned stillness was shattered by a violent, “After them!”

Tree limbs whipped Jake's face and snatched at his uniform, as if trying to hold him until the assailants could catch up. He fought with an animal's panic strength, struggling to keep up with the racing Servais.

“Through the trees! Over here!”

Thundering feet crashed through the brush behind them, adding speed to their flight. Sally's breath was a series of high-pitched gasps. Jake barely missed slamming into a tree he saw only at the last possible moment. Then came the unmistakable crackling sound of gunfire. Jake dropped, rolled, was up and running again, even before the sound had finished its echoing refrain.

Pierre jinked and weaved, crossed over a rutted track, and slid down the embankment on the other side, dragging Sally after him. Jake followed close on their heels, his breath a thunder in his ears. Pierre struggled up a rise; Jake moved in to take Sally's other arm and help lift her up the steep hillock.

At the top there was danger—a clearing without cover. From the other side, figures bounded out of the shadows, struggling through the high snow toward them. Jake was baffled. Panting hard, he dropped to his knees beside Pierre, wondering how their pursuers could have made it up and around them so fast. No, that wasn't possible, he could still hear the shouts and curses following them through the woods behind. Then who—

“Halt!” A voice carried strong and clear across the snow-covered pasture. “Who goes there?”

Behind them the other voices cut off as though sliced with
a knife, and Jake knew a blessed rush of relief. “Captains Burnes and Servais. Who are you?”

“Captain Burnes? Is that really you, sir?” A shadow approached at a run; the moonlight revealed the fresh-faced squad leader from one of their own incoming border patrols. “Captain Servais? And who—Miss Anders? What are you folks doing out here?”

“Do us a favor, Corporal,” Servais said, his breath coming in quick snatches. “Walk us back to the main road, will you?”

All three of them were shaky on their feet as they trekked back toward civilization, Sally most of all. She had been trying to run in low-heeled pumps. Jake and Pierre were not much better off, their dress shoes hardly made for open-field running over snow and ice. The soldiers were solicitous, and accepted their account of an attack by a band of raiders with genuine alarm.

When they reached the edge of the road, the corporal motioned to them to stay back, as they were weaponless. He and two of his men crept forward and disappeared. A few moments later they returned. “Looks like they scampered, sir.”

Jake and the others emerged onto the road to find only their jeep still remaining. The corporal walked over to it and whistled softly. “Come take a look at this, sir.”

They had not been satisfied to slash all four tires. The windshield and headlights were shattered. The seats had been hacked to ribbons with a sharp-bladed knife.

“Never seen anything like this,” the corporal said. “Crazy how they'd destroy something as valuable as a jeep and not take it off as loot.”

“The whole thing's crazy,” Jake muttered.

“You can say that again, sir. Never heard of a band attacking military personnel before. Well, maybe we ought to walk you folks on back to the base. Somebody from the motor pool can come get your jeep. Sure doesn't look like it's moving from here on its own steam.”

They gathered in Sally's office once the squad had been thanked and sent off. Sally vanished and reappeared with blankets and steaming mugs of coffee. They sat and sipped in silence for a few moments before Jake asked Pierre, “Why did you run?”

“It was automatic,” he said succinctly. “I didn't think about it.”

“Smart, all the same.”

Pierre nodded. “A roving band of Connors' goons sets up a roadblock on the only highway leading back from Offenburg, five hours after curfew. What does that tell you?”

“But it doesn't prove anything,” Sally protested.

“No,” Pierre conceded. “Not that alone.”

“What else is there?”

“The fact that they weren't there when we returned,” Jake replied. “If it had been a legitimate checkpoint, they would have stayed around to arrest us. They had ample reason after Pierre gave them another sample of his driving skills.”

Pierre looked up from his two-handed grip on the mug. “What were they after? That is what I cannot understand.”

“The jeep?” Sally offered. “Do you think Connors is still carrying a grudge about that, even when he doesn't know for sure it was us?”

“He knows,” Jake countered. “He may lack the proof, but he knows all the same.”

“Maybe, but I do not think so,” Pierre replied. “Something in my gut says the man would not go to all this trouble over one jeep.”

“But what else could it be?” Jake demanded. “What could a couple of border liaison officers have that would rile a man like that?”

They sought the answers in silence, sipping the potent brew and gathering strength from the companionship for quite a while. Finally Sally set down her mug, stood, and rubbed a sore back. “Well, soldiers, this woman is off to bed.”

Jake was instantly on his feet. “I'll walk you back.”

“No need, but thank you.” She smiled at Pierre. “Good-night, gallant driver.”

“Bonne nuit,” he murmured, his eyes on his friend. “Sleep well.”

“I intend to.” She allowed Jake to follow her down the hall, but at the back door leading to the staff's sleeping quarters, she stopped him with a firm, “It's been great, Jake. Thank you for letting me come along.”

He inspected her face and said quietly, “That's it?”

“The trip to dreamland was captivating,” she admitted. “But I had a rude awakening to reality on the road home.”

“That wasn't reality, Sally,” Jake protested. “This is.”

For once, her sharp wit deserted her. She dropped her eyes and sighed, “If only . . .”

“If only what,” he pressed.

She raised her gaze and said flatly, “Nothing, soldier.”

“If you don't tell me, how am I supposed to know?”

“Maybe you aren't,” she replied, more gently this time. “Good-night, Jake. Go get some sleep.”

Chapter Fourteen

Jake rose the next morning wrapped in the mantle of gloom he had carried to bed the night before. He grunted his responses to Pierre's chatter, and pondered over the pain in his heart. While shaving he gave his face a careful scrutiny, trying to view it as Sally might. What he saw did not leave him reassured.

His face had been hardened by war. There were a few lines, mostly around the eyes and mouth. But not many, not enough to define his features. No, the war had
hardened
him. His chin was drawn like a hatchet, his nose a blade that split his face. The old parting he used to have in his hair was gone; instead, he drew the hair straight back, accenting the aggressive thrust to his jaw. His eyes were direct and cautious. And hard. Hard as the rest of him.

Jake sighed, wiped off the remaining lather, and turned away. A face only a mother could love.

They arrived at staff headquarters just as Sally came tripping down the stairs, half in and half out of her coat. At the sight of her, Jake's heart sped, and his mind sought frantically for something, anything, to change the way things were.

But Sally barely noticed him. She clambered over Jake and spilled into the jeep's backseat, yelling out, “To the hospital! Hurry!”

Jake hung on for dear life as Pierre raced back out the entrance drive and up toward a nearby farmhouse which was now doing duty as the military clinic. He risked a backward glance and asked, “What's going on?”

“They've got him,” she said, but quickly interrupted herself to pound on Pierre's shoulder. “Stop!” She pointed to a running figure.

Harry Weaver was racing down the road toward them,
looking as harried as Sally and just as grim. He leapt into the backseat. “Have you heard anything more?”

“No,” Sally replied.

“About what?” Jake asked.

“Who's got whom?” Pierre demanded.

“Just go!” Sally yelled.

“Where?” Jake and Pierre managed in one voice.

“The stockade!” Sally almost lost control at that point, but with an effort drew herself back from the edge. “They've locked up Buddy Fox. And they hurt him!”

Pierre required no further goading. Jake doubted seriously whether all four tires ever hit the road simultaneously from that point on until they halted before the garrison's makeshift prison.

The stockade occupied the lower portion of what had once been a bank—the only section still intact after a bomb had done away with the upper four floors as neatly as a barber giving a crew cut. The gaping holes where once tall windows had stood were now sectioned off with cross-iron bars over their lower halves and boards closing off the tops.

A squad of MPs with white batons at the ready were gathered in front of the building. At the front and center stood the same sergeant who had led the checkpoint guard patrol.

Sally did not wait for Jake to alight. As the jeep rolled to a stop, she jumped out and stomped over, ready to do battle once more.

“Let him out,” she snapped.

“Can't do that, Miss Anders,” the sergeant replied, his eyes on Jake. “Orders.”

“You want orders? Okay. Fine.” She drew a letter from her pocket, whipped it open, thrust it in the MP's face. “I assume you can read.”

The MP shifted his baton, thrusting it under his left arm, and accepted the paper. He kept his eyes on Jake. “How you doing there, Captain?”

“Morning, Sergeant,” Jake replied. “How's the nose?”

The sergeant flushed and dropped his eyes to the paper, holding the moment as long as he could.

“Well?” Sally snapped.

“Yeah,” the sergeant drawled. “That chaplain created a disturbance downtown. Had this mob crawling all over everywhere. You wouldn't expect a chaplain to incite a riot like that, now, would you?”

“Is that what you call trying to feed starving kids, inciting a riot?” Jake asked.

The sergeant's cold gaze rose back to meet Jake's. “Couldn't hardly get down the street, there were so many people. You know there's an ordinance against gatherings of more than half a dozen Krauts in one place without a permit. You
should
anyway. You being a liaison officer and all.”

“That paper in your hand,” Sally said, almost dancing with rage, “says that the chaplain has express permission to carry on his work, whatever it might require. It also states that you are
ordered
to release Chaplain Fox to my custody
immediately.
It is signed by Colonel Beecham, commanding officer of this garrison.”

“Shame the chaplain had to go and put up such a fuss when we tried to arrest him,” the sergeant went on. “Guess it's like Colonel Connors said. He's been hanging around people who've been a bad influence on him.”

“Just get the man,” Jake ordered.

“Go spring the chaplain, Jenkins,” the sergeant said to one of his men.

“Sure, Sarge.”

The sergeant's gaze never shifted from Jake. “Heard you had a little trouble with your jeep the other night, Captain.”

“Nothing serious,” Jake replied, his voice carrying a cutting edge. “Just a bunch of local roughs. You know the type. Cowards that cut and run at the first sight of a real fight.”

Fury blazed in the sergeant's eyes, but before he could respond Jenkins came back through the door. He supported
a battered Chaplain Fox by one arm. Sally gasped and raced up the stairs with Dr. Weaver.

She put her arms around the chaplain. “Can you make it down the steps?”

“They destroyed my kitchen,” the chaplain moaned, allowing her and the doctor to take almost all his weight. “They tore it all apart and stole all my supplies.”

“Must be talking about that mob,” the sergeant said. “Didn't hardly have enough men to keep order down there.”

“Here, Doc,” the soldier said. “Lemmee give you a hand.”

“You keep your filthy mitts to yourself,” she snapped. “Come on, Buddy. It's all over.”

“Not yet, it ain't,” the sergeant said. “But it soon will be.”

Jake helped them settle the chaplain into the passenger's seat. When everyone else was in, he jumped on the running board. “Let's go.”

As they drove away, the sergeant waved his baton in the air and called, “Y'all come back now, y'hear?”

“I just don't understand it,” the chaplain mumbled through bruised and swollen lips. “What reason could they possibly have for attacking me?”

“Scum like that don't need a reason,” Sally said, wrapping a bandage around his forehead.