Defiant Heart (32 page)

With a broad smile, Vernon stepped across the threshold. He’d never been in this room, though he’d heard about it. It was richly paneled and ornately furnished. In the center of the room was a small table, around which sat a series of high-backed leather chairs. The two chairs facing him were occupied at the moment by men wearing dark suits. One of them Vernon had never seen before. The other, however, looked familiar, though it took Vernon a moment to realize that the last time he’d seen him, the man had been wearing a sweater, and he’d been asking questions about what had happened to Mary.

Then Vernon realized that, in the far corner of the room, sitting side by side on a small settee, were Billy Hamilton and Gwenda Barnes. They both wore ashen looks.

The door closed behind him.

No one said anything for a moment. Vernon’s mind was churning. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when there was a movement in front of him. Someone who had been sitting in the nearest chair with its back to the door stood and turned to face him. It was Mary Dahlgren.

Her eyes blazed. She raised her right arm and pointed a finger directly at Vernon. In a low, even voice, she said, “You tried to rape me.”

Then she moved her hand and pointed it at Jeff. “And you helped him.”

Jeff said immediately, “I didn’t do it.” He took a step away from Vernon. “He did it. It was all his idea. He’s the one who hit her. He threw her on the bed.”

“Are you that stupid?” Vernon snarled. “You think that’s going to help you?”

The door opened behind him. Vernon turned and flexed, thinking that he might make a run for it. A uniformed sheriff’s deputy stood in the doorway. Vernon could see another standing behind him.

“We found the bike,” the first deputy said. “It was about fifty yards downstream. It’s too dark to get it now. We’ll have to come back for it in the morning. But it fits the description.”

“Thank you,” said the man who had been wearing the sweater. He had stood and now indicated Vernon and Jeff. “Please cuff these two.” The two deputies stepped into the room, removing handcuffs from their belts.

As they were snapping them on, the man who’d worn the sweater said, “Vernon King, I’m placing you under arrest for the assault and attempted rape of Mary Dahlgren. Jeff Fletcher, I’m placing you under arrest for accessory to assault and attempted rape, both before and after the fact.”

He tilted his head toward the other man who was still seated. “This gentleman is Murray McAllister. He’s the Winamac County prosecuting attorney. I feel confident he will prosecute these crimes with the vigor they deserve.”

McAllister nodded. “You can count on that.”

One of the deputies put a hand under Vernon’s upper arm and turned him forcefully. “This way,” he said, and he half led, half pushed Vernon to the door. When they stepped out, Vernon could see that many of the party goers had come out of the Conservatory and were now standing in the hall, watching.

The deputy marched Vernon toward the front door. As they reached the foyer, Vernon saw Ed Spitzman. It looked like he had just arrived.

“Spitz,” Vernon called out, “can you help me?”

Spitzman stared back at him, a look of incomprehension on his face.

“Spitz,” Vernon called again, but the deputy was now pushing him through the door.

A pair of black and white sheriff’s cars sat in the circular driveway. The deputy led Vernon to the one in front. The deputy opened the back door, put a hand on top of Vernon’s head, and pushed him firmly into the back seat. The deputy closed the door, came around the vehicle and slid behind the wheel.

As the car began to move, Vernon turned and looked out the window. Spitzman was standing just outside the front door to the Lodge, shaking his head.

#

After Vernon and Jeff were led out of the room, Mary expelled the breath she’d been holding. Her knees felt suddenly weak; she began to shake. Mr. Anderson came around the chair, put his hands gently on her shoulders and turned her. “Mary, why don’t you sit down.”

She did as he suggested and sat. She took a couple of deep breaths.

She’d been anticipating this moment for almost three weeks. After regaining her memory and driving to Ben’s place, she and Ben had sat down and discussed, among other things, how to deal with the two boys who had attacked her. It was Ben who suggested they consult with Tom Anderson.

They drove to Mr. Anderson’s office later that afternoon. The lawyer came up with the idea of luring Vernon and Jeff together into a confrontation, in the hope that they would be caught off guard and would incriminate each other. Jeff, it turned out, had done a nice job of accommodating them.

In the meantime, Mary pretended not to have remembered. She explained away the scene in the parking lot as a panic attack. Sam accepted it, though she insisted on doing the driving to and from school for a few days.

It was an emotional three weeks for Mary. One of the hardest things for her was dealing with her father and Gwenda, both of whom, she now knew, had done dastardly things. These were people she cared for, she loved. And they had taken advantage of her. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

She avoided both of them by feigning fatigue. It wasn’t particularly difficult with her father, who was depressed over the loss of the hardware store and avoiding everyone else anyway. Gwenda accepted the explanation, and she’d arrived this evening with Billy, completely unaware of what was in the offing.

Mr. Anderson brought in Billy and Gwenda first. The moment Mary revealed the return of her memory, Gwenda broke down and confessed to lying about the phony party. She tearfully explained that she had been trying to protect Billy when she’d denied it. Billy likewise came clean. He explained the visit he’d received from Vernon the morning after the attack and his honest belief that Vernon would wrongly implicate him as a willing accomplice.

Mr. Anderson now cleared his throat. “I think,” he said, quietly, “we need to come to some decisions about Billy and Gwenda.”

Mary looked at him. “What do you mean?”

He, in turn, looked at Mr. McAllister. The prosecuting attorney nodded. “I don’t know whether they’re telling the truth about not knowing the plan. I’d like to believe they are.”

“We are,” Gwenda said, weakly, from the corner. Billy had put his arms around her to support her, and he nodded his agreement.

“Nevertheless,” McAllister continued, “they are, by their own admission, guilty of covering up the crime. They could be arrested and charged right now.”

“Oh,” Mary said, alarmed. As mad as she was with Gwenda, she couldn’t imagine her being arrested. She turned and looked at Mr. Anderson.

He put a hand up and nodded. “May I make a suggestion?” he asked, turning again to McAllister.

The prosecutor seemed to know what the other was going to say.

“This has been a horrible ordeal for Mary,” said Mr. Anderson. “None of us want to see it made worse for her. Perhaps, we won’t be doing too much violence to the rule of the law if we allow Mary to decide whether and to what extent this needs to be pursued.”

McAllister looked at Sheriff Jansen. The sheriff tipped his head slightly. The prosecutor then turned his attention to Mary. “Mary,” he said, “how would you like this to be handled?”

Mary thought for a moment. Then she stood and walked over to where Billy and Gwenda sat. Quietly, she said, “Because you were so selfish, Jon is not here. You put him through a horrible ordeal.”

Gwenda sobbed softly.

“It’s going to take me a long time to forgive you,” Mary continued. At the mention of forgiveness, Gwenda raised her head, a desperate look of hope on her tear-stained face. “If Jon is hurt, however, I never will.”

Gwenda nodded, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks.

Mary turned to Mr. McAllister. “I don’t want them to go to jail.”

The prosecuting attorney thought for a moment. “All right,” he said, finally. “I’m going to look the other way,” and, with a glance at Anderson, “this one time.”

Mr. Anderson gave him a slight gesture of acknowledgement.

“Ok,” Sheriff Jansen said to Gwenda and Billy, “you two can go.”

Billy helped Gwenda up, and they walked to the door.

“Son,” the sheriff called out, and Billy stopped and turned.

“You stay out of trouble, do you understand?”

Billy nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Mary returned to her seat, folded her hands in her lap, and gave Mr. McAllister a direct look. “So, when can Jon come home?”

The prosecutor’s brows creased. He looked at Mr. Anderson, who, after a long moment said, “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, Mary. Once you’re in the army, you’re in the army.”

“But he shouldn’t be in the army,” she protested. “It was a mistake.”

The two men both nodded. “It was a mistake,” McAllister said. “And for that, I’m truly sorry. But, what’s done is done.”

Mary’s shoulders slumped. Poor Jon, she thought. Her heart ached for him. As she’d done constantly over the past three weeks, she wondered again exactly where he was and how he was doing.

#

During Jon’s first night at Stanbridge, a massive winter storm rolled in over most of Great Britain and the European mainland. He awoke to find a foot of fresh snow on the ground and the welcome news that flight operations were suspended until further notice.

The evening before, he’d met the rest of the men with whom he shared his living quarters. The other crewman from the Deuces Wild turned out to be Calvin Rogers, the left waist gunner. At twenty-six, he was much older than most of the other air crewmen in the squadron. He was fairly taciturn, and tended to be a loner, but he was nice enough when Jon introduced himself.

The six other bunks in the hut belonged to the enlisted men assigned to the crew of the Silver Bullet. They’d arrived together from the States a week earlier and had yet to go on an official mission, having spent their time on training flights.

Jon had decided to write a letter to his grandmother, and he’d just pulled out a piece of stationery, when one of the other men suddenly called out, “Ten-hut,” indicating that an officer had just entered. Jon immediately jumped up and braced at attention.

A voice from near the front door announced, “Gentlemen, I need an enlisted man for a special duty. Who here has got the least time in?”

“That would be Meyer, sir,” one of the others called out.

Jon spoke up. “Yes, sir.”

There was something oddly familiar about the voice of the officer, which made no sense to Jon, inasmuch as, with the exception of the men in his hut, he knew no one on the base.

Jon could hear the footsteps of the officer approaching and then the man stepped in front of him. The first thing Jon noticed were the two parallel silver bars on the collar of the shirt beneath the man’s leather jacket, indicating that he was a captain. The officer leaned forward, putting his face a few inches from Jon’s.

In basic training, Jon’s instructors had drilled into him the fact that an enlisted man was not to look directly at an officer while at attention. He tried to keep his eyes focused forward, but the man simply wasn’t going to let him do it. The officer moved his head sideways and tilted it. Jon’s eyes finally focused on his face.

The grinning mug of Tommie Wheeler stared back at him and winked.

Tommie straightened. “All right, Meyer,” he said in a commanding voice. “You got the duty. Follow me.”

Jon grabbed his jacket and followed Tommie out of the hut. Tommie headed straight for a jeep that was parked out front and, with a pointed finger, indicated that Jon should get into the passenger seat. Jon complied, while Tommie hopped in behind the wheel. Tommie fired up the engine, threw the jeep into gear, and pulled away with an abrupt jerk.

“Thought we’d go somewhere we could chat,” Tommie called out above the sound of the engine and the air whipping by.

Tommie steered the jeep down through the row of huts and out onto the open area beyond. He seemed to know what he was doing because, even though the ground was covered in a uniform blanket of white, making it impossible to tell where the tarmac ended and the dirt began, he managed to stay on what to Jon felt to be level pavement. Tommie drove out one of the taxiways, turned, and headed for a bomber parked on a hard stand by itself. When he reached it, he came to a stop, set the brake, killed the engine and looked at Jon.

“Yours?” Jon asked.

Tommie nodded.

Jon considered the plane. “I like the name.”

On the side of the fuselage, near the nose, the cartoon silhouette of a man had been painted. He was crouched in the caricature of a boxing stance, two arms held out in front of him, bent upwards at right angles. The figure sported a pair of immense boxing gloves, turned knuckles forward, and had a cigar clenched in his teeth. He was wearing a set of coveralls similar to those worn by ground crewmen, and a large rag hung from his back pocket. A baseball cap was perched backwards on his head. Above the whole thing, in block letters that curved slightly up and over the figure, was the word “Widowmaker.”

Tommie shrugged. “It seemed appropriate.”

Jon studied the cartoon. “Don’t tell me that’s supposed to be your dad.”

“Do you see a resemblance?”

The two of them sat there a moment, squinting at the thing. Then, in unison, they both said, “No,” and laughed.

“Come on,” Tommie said, “we can talk inside.”

Jon followed Tommie up through the forward hatch and into the cockpit. Tommie took a seat on the left hand side, and Jon slid into the copilot’s seat.

Jon had never sat in the cockpit of a B-17. He’d poked his head in the cockpits of a couple of the planes he’d trained in, but he’d never really had a chance to study the controls. It was an impressive collection of dials, knobs and levers.

“This is quite a change from the Jenny.”

“Yep,” Tommie said. He pointed to one of the knobs. “This one makes the coffee.” He tapped another. “This is for calling the butler.”

Jon smiled. He put a hand out, a few inches from a series of dials in front him. “Fuel pressure, oil pressure, oil temperature.”

Tommie nodded.

Jon slid his hand over to the series of levers that sat between them. Touching them lightly, he said, “Throttle, mixture, and,” he hesitated, “propeller pitch?”