The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (25 page)

Finally, the hatch to the tank popped open and the crew started bailing out, followed by flickers of smoke. As soon as they emerged, a long blast of machine gun fire cut them down, and their bodies tumbled from the metal surface of the Panzer to fall in a bloody pile. Weatherby’s mother covered her son’s eyes, and he didn’t mind it. He felt sick to his stomach, wanting to curl up in darkness until the terrible world around him went away.

But then, for just a few seconds around Castle Stein, there was silence. Weatherby heard cries in English, a language he spoke well, but it was in an accent he had only heard occasionally on the radio, or when he and his father went into town to see a rare moving picture show at the cinema. These were Americans.

They stepped carefully out from behind trees, or pulled themselves up from the dirt, carbines and submachine guns in their hands. They were rough men, seemingly composed of the dirt and grime that covered their faces. Their olive green helmets and khaki uniforms were tattered, and a few wore cameo face paint. The American paratroopers stepped closer to the castle, their weapons raised, ready to open fire at a moment’s notice.

Hannah stood up and waved her hands. “Don’t shoot!” she cried. “I’m a British citizen! My husband and son are here and they are not Nazis!”

A hushed mumble ran through the American troops. “Dr. Stein?” One of the Americans waved his hand. He was broad shouldered, a solid fellow with dark eyes hidden under the brim of his helmet. “It’s A-okay, Doc! I’m Sergeant Morton Candle. I’m with the Airborne. We’re here to rescue you and your family.” A tommy gun rested easily in his powerful hands.

Dr. Stein came to his feet, helping Weatherby along. “Oh, thank heavens,” Stein said. “I must thank you, gentlemen. But I can’t, I just can’t find the proper words.” He and his wife reached down and took Weatherby’s hands.

“All right, doc. Just come over here, nice and easy,” Candle said. He turned to his men, barking out orders. “Tiny, cover them with the MG! Elkins, you use that rifle to keep the Krauts pinned in the castle. Dutch, get your behind over there and help them get the kid across. Gently now, soldiers!”

They started walking across the drawbridge. Weatherby allowed himself a little smile – and then he heard footsteps pounding behind them. He turned around and felt all the happiness from their rescue flee away.

Sergeant Morgen was charging for them, a luger in each hand. Morgen’s uniform was in shreds, and the long claw of one of the Draugr, like a thin line of steel, projected out from his bloody eye socket. Morgen’s remaining eye was wide and bloodshot, and he snarled like a wild beast at the Steins.

“Those were my men!” Sergeant Morgen shouted. “They were my men you fed to your monsters! I’ll kill you, doctor! I’ll rip off your brat’s head, and tear your wife in half!” His rasping German came in gasps and growls, and he leapt into the Steins, firing all the while.

Dr. Stein didn’t get a chance to scream. A bullet struck his gut, and then another pounded into his throat and he fell down onto the drawbridge. Weatherby stared at him, not believing the sudden flash of red around Dr. Stein’s throat. Then Sergeant Morgen was next to them, aiming his pistols at Weatherby and Hannah.

Everywhere, people were screaming. Hannah was crying while her husband gurgled up blood. Candle, the American, was yelling at his men. “Save the woman and the kid, you dumb bastards!” he howled, as Sergeant Morgen drew nearer, crashing his shoulder into Weatherby and knocking him into his mother.

“I ain’t got a clear shot!” the nearest American cried.

Then Sergeant Morgen swung his pistols to face Hannah and Weatherby. He fired once as Hannah grabbed him, and Weatherby felt his left side burn and then go terribly numb. He didn’t cry, just stared up at his mother as she held him, shielding him with her body, and he felt something wet under his clothes. Morgen fired again.

“Weatherby,” Hannah said, still holding him close. Weatherby looked at his mother. He saw blood seeping down into her dress. Morgen fired again. She caught the slug in her back and they both toppled onto the ground. Weatherby was pinned down by the body of his mother.

“Damn it all to Hell!” Weatherby heard Candle cry, seemingly from very far away. “Damn it all, I’ll get a clear goddamn shot!”

Weatherby looked up, and saw Morgen aiming his Lugers down at the boy, over his mother’s body. He still felt blood and numbness in his shoulder, and tears in his eyes. But he didn’t scream, and just watched in silence as Morgen prepared to put a round through his head.

But Sergeant Candle didn’t let it happen. He leapt at Morgen, pounding the bigger German to the ground, and slashing at him with his combat knife. Weatherby saw the blade of the knife go into Morgen’s chest, again and again, until the green SS uniform was red from the streams of blood.

Morgen didn’t go down. He dropped his pistols and grabbed at Candle’s throat, trying to squeeze the life from the paratrooper. Blood ran from Morgen’s eye, down his cheek and onto his collar. Candle kept stabbing him, kicking out with his boots as he rammed the combat knife home. Finally, Candle’s flailing arm reached the knife high enough, and slid it into Morgen’s throat. He pulled it out as Morgen began to die, but the Nazi’s grip didn’t slacken.

“Goddamn…Kraut…Bastard!” Candle hissed between clenched teeth as he pulled the knife back, and then, with all of his strength, plunged it into Sergeant Morgen’s forehead. Weatherby saw Sergeant Morgen topple backwards, letting Candle fall to the ground.

In the next second, Candle was gently pulling away Hannah’s body, and freeing Weatherby. The boy felt darkness flickering in at the corner of his vision, as the wound in his shoulder started to suddenly ache. “Oh hell,” Candle whispered. “Medic! This poor kid needs a medic! Get over here, on the double!”

The darkness grew greater and greater, and finally reached in and snuffed out everything Weatherby saw.

When he woke up, he was lying in a cot in a green tent. He could see the tall trees of the Black Forest outside through the tent flap, lost in a blur. Someone handed him his spectacles, and he set them on his nose. One lens was cracked, but Weatherby didn’t notice. He saw Sergeant Morton Candle standing over him, his round green helmet in his hands. Weatherby felt gauze and bandages along his shoulder and chest. He tried to move.

“Not yet, kiddo,” Candle said, and he gave the boy a canteen of cold water. “You, uh, you took quite a beating. The medic, he said you got a broken rib, a bunch of bruises, and a slug in your shoulder. Don’t you worry, though. He got the bullet out and patched you up. You’re gonna heal up fine.”

Weatherby stared at Candle. “Thank you, Mr. Candle,” he said. “You saved my life, sir.”

“Jeez, kiddo, I didn’t, I mean, it weren’t nothing much,” Candle replied. “Just serving Uncle Sam.”

There was a pause. And then Weatherby asked the terrible question, which he already knew the answer to. His voice broke. “My mother and f-father,” he said. “D-did t-they…oh….”

“Um, no. I’m sorry, kiddo. I’m sorry as all hell.” Morton looked away. “They were both, well, gone when we got to you. They gave their lives for you.” He turned around, running a hand through his dark close-cropped hair. “We chased the Krauts out, and killed the experimental wierdos they had running around in the castle. It’s all cleared out now.”

Weatherby didn’t say anything. The fact that his father and mother were gone was slowly sinking in. “Where are they?” he asked. “Where are my parents?”

“I had some of the boys dig two graves, out in your family’s plot. We put them down, and made some simple markers. Maybe you can put up some fancy stone ones, later. I’m sorry, kiddo. I’m sorry as all hell.”

“Can I see them?” Weatherby asked.

“Maybe tomorrow. The docs say you gotta sleep.” Sergeant Candle scratched the back of his neck. He was clearly uncomfortable. “The boys in the platoon are gonna be real happy to see that you pulled through. We’ve been worried about you. We’ll watch over you, you know? You’re gonna be just fine. Okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Weatherby said, and he didn’t hear the sound of his voice. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’ll let you sleep now, kiddo. I’ll be right outside. Just let me know if you need some water or something, and I’ll come running.” He turned around, and stiffly stepped out through the tent flap. “Ah Christ,” Weatherby heard him mutter. “Poor little guy. I didn’t…I don’t know what to tell him…”

Weatherby leaned back on the pillow. The tears were rolling down his face, and he could taste the salt on his lips and tongue. He didn’t know when he fell asleep.

The next day, after a small breakfast, Sergeant Morton Candle led Weatherby into the graveyard, where all of his ancestors lay. It was a cold day, and Weatherby was draped in a soldier’s green greatcoat, which hung heavily on his small frame. All the soldiers were very kind to him, and he thanked them politely for everything.

There in the graveyard, resting in two plots in the corner of the wide, tomb strewn field, were a pair of wooden crosses. Weatherby looked at their names. The inscriptions were simple: Hannah Rosenthal Stein and Dr. Wolfgang Paracelsus Stein.

The strength suddenly left Weatherby’s legs and he fell to his knees. He blinked his eyes, many times. Candle stood behind him. “So,” Candle said. “After the war, I guess this whole place will be yours, huh? It’ll be nice, I guess, living in a castle.”

“But what’s the point, sir?” Weatherby asked, as his voice cracked. The tears started to come, thick and hot. “It won’t be any good, Mr. Candle. Not without them.”

The open road is a strange place. It’s American as apple pie to sit in the back of your auto, speeding down one of those new highways along with a thousand other tourists and businessmen, and only stopping at greasy spoons and motels for a break. But if you go off the road, seeking a little bit of excitement, you might find yourself driving into something you didn’t expect. And there’s no way you can hit reverse and get out of there quick enough, all because you put your nose where it didn’t belong.

I make my living putting my nose where it doesn’t belong. I’m a private eye, and I found myself cruising through a couple of Midwest states on Route 66, that big highway that cuts across the plains like the curving scar of a butcher knife, in a new cherry red Buick Skylark. The only thing hurting was my wallet, after that expensive purchase. I turned my eye to the gas gauge and mumbled a curse.