Forgive Me, Alex (21 page)

"Be sure to stay in the area, Mitchell," Ms. FBI says. "I'm sure we'll be seeing you soon."

"I'll look forward to it."

"Whenever anyone is against his will, this is to him a prison." – Epictetus

~~~~~

I received the call from Linda a few minutes ago.

All of Algonquin will soon understand that their nightmare has truly returned. Mitchell Norton is back in business. The two victims of torture, murder and dismemberment—shades of the reign of terror that gripped Algonquin in 1978—bring to an end the seventeen-year respite.

Why does this not surprise me? I still remember the eyes of
the devil
. I knew he couldn't help himself. Now two additional deaths, two more innocent victims, pile onto my already heavy conscience.

Well join the frickin' party!

"I know you're not blaming yourself for this," Frank says from his La-Z-Boy.

I swear he can read my mind.

He holds his gaze. "This isn't like the other cases. This one is personal and everyone knows it. There are too many eyes on you this time. Let the authorities handle it."

"If I'd done what I should have done seventeen years ago, they wouldn't
have
to handle it, and Melody Nesmith and John Adams would still be alive."

"You must let it go. You did what was right at that time and place. You did what a person of conscience does."

I jump up and start pacing around his living room, and laugh. "Oh? So what does that say about what I've been doing since then? About my special avocation?"

"That's unfair. You know what I mean. You were only eighteen, still a
boy
. It would have been unfair to expect you to kill Mitchell Norton. That was too much to ask of an eighteen-year-old. How long will you go down that road?"

"I'll go down that road until I hear his last terrified breath, and that won't be much longer."

"Tony, please be careful. There are too many people paying attention this time. They're watching Mitchell Norton, most assuredly, and possibly watching you as well. You always take frightful chances when you do what you do, but the risk will be even greater this time."

"I'll be careful to remain in the shadows. If the police catch him first, that's fine with me. As long as they lock him up and he can't kill again, I can live with it. But goddammit, the law doesn't always work. I know the chief is a good cop and Linda is a good cop, and that most cops are good cops, but the law is another matter. It focuses too heavily on the rights of bastards like Norton. I don't have to deal with the restraints the cops have to deal with."

"Sure, as long as you're willing to pay the price if you get caught. The law will not forgive you. Nor will most cops, for that matter."

"I've always been willing to accept the risks."

He looks at me with genuine concern, perhaps a touch of sadness. He's long expected the hammer to fall and to hear that I'm in custody. He says nothing.

"How are the finances doing, by the way? I'll need a fresh infusion of cash."

Uh-oh.

I don't like the look on his face. Frank has given me money for so long—paid my way—that I've come to take it for granted. What happens when there's no more money? I've never held a
real
job, not as an adult at any rate. I don't even know where to begin, if I
must
begin. What shall I do about my calling? How shall I walk the road I've chosen? Hell, it's more accurate to say the road chose me.

I plop back down onto the sofa. "Is money a problem?" I ask. "I always assumed.... I don't know exactly
what
I assumed. I took too much for granted."

"No, no, I was just thinking. I'm eighty-eight years old and I'm winding down, Son. I feel it in my bones, in my muscles, in my heart—everywhere. It should hardly be a surprise."

"What are you talking about? You'll probably make a hundred."

"I doubt that. At any rate, I've put this off for too long already. It's too risky to postpone it any longer. We need to talk about some things, to plan for the future."

I've wondered about Frank's past since I was a kid, but my emotions are mixed at this point. However strong my curiosity, or the prudence of discussing it, this talk, as if he faces his imminent end, is not my idea of a good time. He can't live forever but, given the dangers inherent in my avocation, I thought he might actually outlive me. Always the indestructible force, he's a mere mortal after all.

"Okay." What else can I say? The rest is for him.

"I know you've been curious for a long time, and that you've had your suspicions, especially after that hypnosis episode with Art Reynolds back in 1978. The things I'm about to tell you may be difficult to believe, and may even bring to mind those spy novels you love so much. Try to keep your imagination in check and bear with me. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Art worked with the CIA, and I worked with him until I retired in 1959. He passed a few years back, by the way. I never mentioned it."

CIA? Yeah. Why am I not surprised?
"I'm sorry. Was he a friend?"

"Yeah, we worked together starting right after the war—that would be World War II. We came out of the OSS, which was the wartime precursor to the CIA. They recruited me during the war to do some fieldwork and...." He scratches his palm. "Dear me, suddenly I'm nervous."

Color rushes to his face, and a tremor has attacked his hands. He's eighty-eight, sure—but he's Frank! He swallows hard.

"It's okay, Gramps. You know you can tell me anything."

"I know." He takes a deep breath. "I was what the OSS called an
asset
. I'm German, Son, or at least I was. I obtained American citizenship in 1950. My real name, the one I was born with, was Franz Wollman. I worked as a psychiatrist with the German army during the war. They forced me to do some... unpleasant things, to participate in ungodly experiments."

"My God, are you telling me you were a Nazi?"

He clasps his hands together in an apparent attempt to control the shaking, and squeezes. His jaw muscles begin popping and he looks as if he's about ready to stroke-out.

Damn! I should—

"I was hardly a fervent believer. They
forced
me. I had two options: participate or die. They would have killed Marta—that was Martha's real name—as well."

He pauses again to take yet another deep breath, and closes his eyes as if remembering.

He opens them again, and says, "I complained about it at the time, quietly and in tight circles, which ultimately attracted the OSS agent to me. He offered to smuggle Marta and me to America, but first I had to provide what he called
vital information
. I jumped at the opportunity, but those next six months were the most difficult of my life.

"I was torn about betraying my country, but witnessing the savagery of the Nazis made that easier. Many people went along, but they did so out of fear and misguided patriotism, at least in the beginning. Those were such desperate times. After the war, most good folks felt ashamed and guilty, maybe a little angry, and many struggled against a new onslaught of nightmares.

"I begged my handler to get me out of Germany
immediately
, but they needed me where I was. The things I saw and, God help me, the programs in which I participated. I pray every day for forgiveness, and I must trust that God has heard those prayers. I must also trust that I helped to defeat that terrible evil in my own small way, and by doing so helped save many more lives. I
must
believe these things. The pain would be too much to endure otherwise."

He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his face and neck. The handkerchief lingers a few seconds at his eyes, holding back the tears, I think.

I've never seen him so distraught.

"When Marta and I escaped and came to this country in 1943," he says, "the OSS put me to work with their intelligence officers. They were attempting to understand the German mindset and determine how they'd react to certain events, to make best use of the Nazi psyche during the war. I had insight into such matters."

"You weren't a Nazi at all," I say. "You worked against your own country. Even though it was the right thing to do, it must have been difficult."

He nods and sighs, as though the vice that had been gripping his heart just eased back. "Indeed. My conscience is mostly clear, though it would be more so, had they allowed me to leave prior to those horrifying six months. I'm not an overtly emotional man, as you know, part of my rigid German upbringing, I suppose...."

Yeah, sure... not emotional.

"...Nonetheless, I often awoke screaming and crying afterwards. I spent many therapy sessions working with Art, and he helped me recover from those horrors. He was a young man then, recently out of school, but wise and talented beyond his years."

He leans back, takes his deepest breath yet, and his shoulders relax into his chair, the tremors in his hands gone. "Truman disbanded the OSS after the war, but it wasn't long before they created the CIA. I joined them and performed various duties, always related to psychiatry. That was it, until I retired in '59."

"This is unbelievable," I say, "real movie-making material. The one thing I don't understand is the money. Were you wealthy in Germany?"

A half-smile overtakes his face, and he laughs under his breath. "No, that's another story of which I'm not particularly proud, but one for which I've tried to make amends. Before I left Germany, I stole from one of the Nazis, who were themselves stealing from all over Europe and North Africa. They took whatever they could get their hands on: paintings, sculptures, jewelry, gold and silver, money, valuable trinkets of any kind. They were murderers, to be sure, but they were also
thieves
."

"I've read about that," I say.

"It was true. One field marshal assigned to our headquarters had built quite a little stash for himself. I got a peek at it accidentally one day. The last thing I did before being smuggled out of Germany was break into his office and steal his hidden stash, all of which was ill-gotten in ways I dared not imagine."

"Stash," I say. "What in the world are you talking about?"

"It will be easier to show you. Walk with me."

Frank accepts my arm and stands gingerly, more fragile than usual, as though talking about this, remembering it, further stresses an old and tired body and mind. We meander through the kitchen and out the back door.

A blast of heat radiates off the patio, and the humidity glues my shirt to my chest within seconds. Also always happens when we step outside his house, an invisible aromatic mist—some weird mixture of field grass, fresh-cut lawn, and more than a dozen flower varieties—lay over us like nature's perfume.

He points us toward the garden and leads the way, and although I'm unsure how this relates to our discussion, I follow.

We cross the gothic bridge and he stops before a tree trunk. "Remember how I put the pumps for the stream into sawed-off tree trunks?"

"Yeah, but this isn't one of those."

"It's special in another way. You see that hole down there?" He points to a knotted opening—circular, approximately six inches in diameter—at the base of the trunk.

"Sure, I see it."

"Reach inside, and be careful of spiders."

Spiders? Crap, I hate spiders!
I stoop down on one knee to look inside before reaching into the hole. "What's this metal lever?"

"Pull that straight out toward you."

When I do so, the top of the trunk rises to a slight angle. "What in the world is this?"

"Now lift the top until it's straight up."

The hollowed-out trunk, constructed differently from those Frank created for his stream pumps, contains one item: a black box.

"Leave the box inside the trunk," he says, "but raise the lid. Inside are several velvet bags of varying colors. Grab the blue bag and open it."

"Holy smokes! Are these real sapphires?"

"Yes, and in the red bag are rubies, in the green bag emeralds, in the white bag diamonds—you get the idea."

"Good heavens, some of these stones are
huge
. How much are these worth?"

"Been several years since I last checked, so I'm not sure, but as long as you don't get carried away, and along with other investments I have, there's probably enough there to last your lifetime. I've used them sparingly and only when necessary, and I've been generous with charities from time to time, which is how I tried to make things right. Believe me, Field Marshal Kleinschmidt would have been less generous had I left them.

"It's a tradition I expect you to uphold. They belong to you now."

"What? Wait a minute. You're
giving
them to me?"

"It's time, and my needs are modest, so
you
may now give
me
money. Also, we'll make arrangements for you to take ownership of the property."

"Holy cow, this is moving too fast! I have so many questions. How do you convert the stones to cash? Is it difficult? What about the IRS?"