Forever Man (20 page)

He wasn’t moving.

Izzy reached for her own gun. Next to her, Gene tried to slide in front of Katie, to put himself between her and the gun fire, but his foot caught on the corner of the desk and sent him sprawling onto the floor behind the desk. He managed to swing his hands out in front of him, cushioning the fall, but the impact must have jarred his back. He rolled over, his face pale and bathed in sweat.

Seeing Gene go down, Owens stepped in front of Katie.

Izzy freed her Glock. She watched as a man eased into the open doorway with a Sig P226 held out in front of him. Stunned, she took in the dark blue uniform, the leather gun belt with its handcuffs and empty holster, the Kinsey Police Department badge. His hard eyes and cruel grin.

Carlton Manick.

Izzy pointed her gun at the patrolman’s chest. “Don’t move,” she said coldly. “Or so help me God, I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

Carlton’s eyes darted from her to Bart to Katie and then back to her. Without taking his eyes off Izzy, he said, “Three people. Morris. The Bethel kid. And the black guy.”

“You said he was in jail,” said a voice heavy with fatigue.

Owens surprised her by speaking. “You sound tired, Darryl. Don’t tell me you were showing off again. I thought she taught you better than that?”

The other French door swung open. Denny Cain stood there, holding a hunting rifle. Behind him stood Jack Sallinen and a man who must have been Darryl Webber.

Denny swung his rifle around to cover Owens.

Jack held a small .38 pointed in the general vicinity of the floor

Darryl Webber appeared unarmed. But Owens was right: the man looked exhausted.

“You’re outgunned, old man,” Webber said. His eyes widened when he saw the gray metal box. “God damn it, Jack! I told you to get rid of that thing!” Snarling, he said, “Manick, kill the cop.”

“Go ahead,” Izzy told her patrolman. “Give me a reason to blow your ass away.”

“Where’s my son?” Jack shouted from behind Denny. He still wore that awful cream-colored suit from earlier that day. “Where’s Kevin! What’d you do with him?”

Izzy frowned. “What? We—”

“—thought it’d be better if
we
watched him for a while,” Owens finished for her. He gave Izzy a hard look. “Gene Vincent’s already got the boy miles from here. You’ll never catch him.”

“
No
!” Jack howled, the cry evolving into an odd thrumming that Izzy could feel as well as hear. The effect made the hairs on her arm stand on end.

Webber grabbed Jack by the collar and yanked him back. “I said kill her!” he shouted, then both men fled.

Carlton Manick tensed as he prepared to fire.

Izzy didn’t hesitate. She pulled the trigger. There was a loud explosion, and the stench of burnt gunpowder filled the room. Her round slammed into Carlton, staggering the big man backwards. She fired again. The second round furrowed through his right shoulder and sailed on to shatter the big screen television in the living room. The third bullet caught him in the throat. Blood and bone and tissue exploded from the back of Carlton Manick’s neck. With a look of shocked disbelief on his face, he crumpled to the floor.

Denny Cain drew a bead on Izzy. There was a flurry of movement on the floor as Sten rolled onto his back, raised his gun and fired. But he’d been injured. His aim was imperfect. The bullet impacted with the Remington’s wood stock near the barrel and tore the rifle from Denny’s grip. It crashed in a broken heap on the floor under the Fuseli painting.

When Bart Owens advanced on Denny, the man fled.

Izzy hurried over to Sten. The detective lay panting on the floor, blood flowing from the wound in his shoulder. Sweat had slicked his white hair flat against his scalp. Squinting up at Izzy, he asked, “Do you know how hard it was not to move while that
prick
stood there above me? Too bad I wasn’t the one who shot him.”

“Your vest?” asked Izzy.

“Bullet nicked it,” Sten replied thinly. “Lucky for me. My shoulder would’ve been trashed worse than it is.”

“I’ll radio for an ambulance,” said Izzy. “Just lay still.”

Over by the desk, Gene hauled himself off the floor. He walked gingerly over to Owens and Katie, one hand holding his back. “Thanks for the excuse to stay down,” he said to Owens. “I think I’ll leave the hero stuff to you.” Then to Katie, who was crying softly and still had her hands over her ears, he said, “Katie? It’s over. It’s okay now.”

Katie pulled her hands from her ears and used them to wipe at her tears. “People are dying, Mr. Vincent. Tell me how that’s okay.”

Gene opened his mouth to say something, but simply nodded in agreement.

After calling an ambulance for Sten, Izzy joined the others.

“He should be okay,” she informed them. “His shoulder’s pretty torn up. I can’t believe he got that shot off.” She looked at Owens. “That was quick thinking on your part. Now they think we have Kevin. That should tie their hands a bit as they figure out what to do next.”

“But if
they
don’t have Kevin,” Gene said, “and
we
don’t have him?”

“That’s the question,” she said. “Where is Kevin Sallinen?”

Of Monsters

and

Madmen

The line of M4 Sherman tanks lumbered over the grassy terrain outside Morville-les-Vic, France, their thick treads throwing up big, wet chunks of mud. Heavy rains fell from a bruised sky, cutting visibility down to almost nothing. Mortar rounds exploded around them like small earthquakes.

Crouched in the upper turret seat of his tank, Sgt. Bartholomew Owens, commander of the 761
st
Tank Battalion B-Company, shouted over the grinding howl of the R975 engine that pushed them closer to war.

“Bucky! Anything?”

“Ditches, Sarge!” PFC Robert “Bucky” Hatton shouted back from the driver’s seat. He jammed the controls forward and the tank surged ahead. “They everywhere. Gonna be a real bitch getting past them.”

“Just keep rolling,” Bart yelled. He wiped the sweat running down his grease-stained face. Despite the cold November air, it was hot as a blast furnace inside the tank. “Dex! Al!”

“Got us one in the chamber,” answered PFC Dexter Grant, the tank’s loader.

Wedged beneath the big gun assembly, his gunner, Cpl. Allan Richmond yelled, “Nazi bastards are dug in like ticks.” Bart couldn’t see his friend from where he sat, but he knew Al was grinning, his white teeth bright against the sooty darkness of the tank’s interior. He was the only man Bart knew who wore his helmet everywhere, even in the tank. “Must have been holed up for a good long time. We’re in for a rough one.”

Bart grunted. Rough one, indeed. The brass at 26
th
Division had had their eye on Morville-les-Vic since the start of the war. If it could be taken, the town’s bridges would provide a more direct route to the German border. They might even catch Hitler off guard. But Army Intel had found out that the town was full of German soldiers. Patton had simply chosen to pass it by—he knew trying to go through would only slow him down. However, if the infantry following the general were able to use the bridges, they could catch up with him later and bust through into Germany.

So B-Company had been ordered to spearhead the advance on Morville-les-Vic.

Bart wasn’t stupid: his division’s inaugural mission was a suicide run. They wanted to send in the 761
st
, America’s first all-Negro tank unit, and let the Germans use up their ammo cutting down his men like a scythe through tall grass. Then the infantry—the
white
infantry—could sweep in and finish the job.

But this was the Army. Orders were orders, and B-Company had rolled. However, contrary to his captain’s intentions, Bart had his own reason for getting into that town.

“Bucky!” he shouted. “Find a way past those ditches.”

The twenty-year-old from Arkansas laughed. “Sure, Sarge. You want I should keep rolling right through to Berlin? Drive this thing down Hitler’s throat?” But the man’s laughter died as mortar fire blasted the ground next to the tank. “Shit!” he cried, jerking the tank to the left. Bart pitched forward but managed to catch himself on the periscope. Cpl. Richmond clung to the gun’s housing. PFC Grant fell on his ass.

Al didn’t wait for the order. The recoil from the big 75mm gun rocked the tank.

“Dex!” Bart roared. His loader popped up and shoved a heavy M48 round into the gun’s chamber.

“Hit it!” Dex cried, and Al fired again.

More enemy shells exploded near the tank, buffeting it back and forth.

“Ten degrees right,” Bart ordered from above.

While Al rotated the gun turret, Dex loaded another round. “Go, go!”

Al fired. This time the gunner whooped, “Got ‘em!”

Before Bart could say anything else, Bucky screamed, “Ditch! Ditch!” and pulled hard on the controls—but he was too late. The tank’s front end collapsed into an anti-tank ditch, throwing everyone forward. Bart twisted, taking most of the impact on his shoulder. Bucky Hatton flung his arms out in front of his face, bounced off the smaller machine gun assembly and slumped back in his seat. Al’s helmet ended up saving his life: the gunner’s head flew forward and collided with one of the thick metal gun supports. The crease it put in his helmet was as long as his little finger.

PFC Dexter Grant wasn’t so lucky. When the tank abruptly stopped, he’d been reaching for another round. With his body bent in half, he’d had no time or leverage to protect himself. He was tossed around like a rag doll. When he crashed to the floor, his neck was twisted and bent at an unnatural angle. Blood seeped from his wide nostril and the corner of his mouth. His dead eyes stared blankly up.

Bart stared back. Around his neck he wore a chain with a small piece of wood attached. He lifted his hand, felt for it through the cloth of his shirt. When he found it, he closed his eyes and silently said a quick prayer. Dex Grant had only been nineteen.

Mortar fire brought him back to the present. He pushed open the turret hatch and yelled to his two remaining men. “Out! Out! Get out!”

Bart gripped the metal sides of the hatch and pulled himself out of the tank. Al Richmond’s helmeted head followed soon after.

After the humid, oily interior of the tank, the cold wind felt like a slap in the face. Rain lashed at them. There was the familiar, high-pitched scream of mortar fire, and the ground twenty feet to their right exploded.

“Check on Bucky,” said Al as he struggled through the hatch. “I don’t think he’s moving.”

Bart spun around and scrambled over the slippery surface to the front of the tank. At the driver’s hatch, he began tugging at the metal door. It wouldn’t budge.

“Bucky!” yelled Bart. His fists pounded on the door. “Open the door! Bucky!”

The hatch’s handle slowly rotated. Bart jerked the door open.

Bucky Hatton’s brown face was streaked with blood from a cut on his forehead. His eyes looked glassy, and Bart wondered briefly if the man had a concussion. The driver reached out with a trembling hand. Bart helped him out of the wrecked tank. As the man emerged from the hatch, Bart noticed his other hand gripped a canvas duffel.

They hurried around to the rear of the tank. Everyone ducked when a German mortar blasted a hole in the ground where they had just been standing.

Protected behind the now-useless hunk of metal, Bart turned to Bucky Hatton. “I ordered you out of that tank, Private!”

“I ain’t gonna apologize, Sarge. Not this time.” Bucky held out the duffel. It was Dexter Grant’s kit bag. “He was so proud of this,” Bucky went on. “Carried it with him everywhere. Even used it as a pillow. Says to everyone how it make him feel like a real man.

“Dex, he looked up to you, Sarge. Say you like a poppa to him. Say he would follow you to the end of his days…and I guess he did.” He held out the bag. “It yours now, seein’ as you don’t got one. I think Dex would a wanted it like that. Maybe even make him feel kind a proud.”

Bart nodded and grabbed the duffel. It wasn’t very heavy. Dexter Grant had come from rural Mississippi. Bart knew from the many times he’d seen it opened that all it contained were Dex’s clothes and a Bible.

“Thank you,” he said, hitching the kit bag high on his shoulder. He blinked the rain out of his eyes, squinted at the water-soaked battlefield. “Come on. We’re not done yet. We need to get into that town.”

Izzy stood on the lawn of the Sallinen home. In the northwest, dark clouds built towers high into the sky. The wind had picked up, bringing in chillier air. Snow was coming.

The ambulance had just pulled away with Sten Billick secured in the back. The coroner was due to arrive soon for Carleton Manick’s body.

She could sense Owens and Katie standing behind her, waiting for her to do something. At the old man’s urging, Gene had stayed inside and out of sight. “You never know who’s watching,” he had said. “If Darryl and his friends want to think Gene’s far, far away, let them. We’ll need every advantage we can get.”

Izzy had shaken her head in wonder. Musician, my ass.

She turned and nodded toward the door. The gesture was clear:
Let’s go inside.

In Jack’s office, they found Gene standing at the desk. Owens took a position at the living room window, watching the street. Katie came to stand next to Izzy.

Gene held up a long-bladed screwdriver with a large yellow-and-red striped plastic handle. “I found it in a kitchen drawer. Figured we could use it to bust open the lock on this.” He tapped the gray metal box with the tip of the screwdriver.

“Why not?” Izzy said. “The State Police are going to be involved soon, so we may as well find out what we can, while we can.”

Nodding, Gene took the screwdriver and jammed the flat tip between the lock’s hasp and the body of the box. Then he struck the end of the screwdriver with his hand. The metal barrel shot down through the hasp, snapping it free of the lock.

Izzy turned the metal box around to face her. “Let’s see what had Webber so annoyed.”