The Heritage Paper (27 page)

Tucking the boy in felt right. She needed to feel like a mother again. She was supposed to protect them, but now they were God-knows-where with Eddie and whoever he was working for. Her heart broke once more.

She turned out the lights and wandered into Maggie’s room. It felt so lonely. Maggie normally kept it so neat, but the burglary had left clothes strewn all over the floor and her beloved easel tipped over. Veronica sat on the bed for a moment, feeling an intense exhaustion take over her body. She tried to fight it—she had no time to sleep—but the Sandman proved too strong.

It was still dark when she awoke. Her watch said it was almost four in the morning. She hoped for a dream, but the post-disaster look of Maggie’s room made her scramble to her feet. She didn’t know where to go, or what to do, but she knew she needed to keep moving.

She checked on TJ, who was sound asleep, snoring away. She then went downstairs to find Zach still stubbornly staring at the computer screen.

He turned around at the sound of her entering. But he wasn’t jumpy. And actually had a smile on his face.

“What is it?” Veronica asked.

“I found it—Ellen did leave us a clue.”

Otto peered out over the great city, taking a rare moment to enjoy the heavenly sunrise over the Atlantic. There wouldn’t be many more moments of reflection until the job was complete. Today was a day he’d anticipated for as long as he could remember—the day America would succumb to the Achilles heel of any democracy … an election.

His eyes moved from the ball of fire rising in the sky, to the endless ocean that acted as its footstool. The Americans always arrogantly believed the great ocean was their shield. Wars might take place in Europe, the Pacific, or the Middle East, but never would the Great Democracy be threatened on its own turf. But they should have studied the lessons that the Germans learned after Word War I—that the deadliest enemy was always within. Germany was stolen by the saboteurs within its borders, not by England or France.

His eyes moved to the southern tip of the island, where the attacks took place. He still couldn’t believe those savages were able to pull it off, even with his help. It was all it took for the natives to trade two hundred years of freedom and ideals for security. They chased mythical enemies around the globe, opening America to the threat within its own borders, just as he thought they would.

Otto flashed a rare smile. Today was the culmination of the struggle. But in the end, he knew they wouldn’t be able to complete their mission without the right leader—the Candidate.

The Führer might have been presumptuous in his anointing of Josef, but he was correct in his selection of the proper bloodline. The minute that Otto met Josef’s son, he knew he was the one who would lead the revolution. He was a natural born leader, matching what the Führer had famously written:
The spark of genius exists in the brain of the truly creative man from his hour of birth. True genius is always inborn and never cultivated, let alone learned.

There was no more time to waste on sunrises, no matter how stunning. Otto took the elevator to the ground floor, where the limo was waiting for him. After informing the driver of his destination, they were off, beating the heavy morning traffic.

They drove through the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, before exiting at Hamilton Avenue. A few turns later they arrived at the entrance of Green-Wood Cemetery.

It was made up of five park-like acres. It would be hard to find a more attractive place to be buried. Its inhabitants included Boss Tweed, Horace Greeley, and Charles Ebbets, of Brooklyn Dodgers fame. But the only people Otto cared about were John and Eleanor O’Neill, his parents.

The limo pulled to a halt and Otto entered into a sun-drenched morning. His driver offered help, but this was a private time for him and his parents. He slowly maneuvered over the grounds by foot.

They were not buried in an elaborate mausoleum like those responsible for their death, but under two crumbling stones.

The term “murder-suicide” wasn’t en vogue in 1933, and technically, his father did shoot his mother and then put the gun in his own mouth. But Petey knew the real culprits were the Jews who oppressed his family, and sucked the will to live from them. He held them responsible for their murder, even if the enabling American law enforcement didn’t see it that way.

With the memories lingering in the morning air, Otto told his parents how the Candidate would get them justice, even if they weren’t around to witness it. He felt the strong sun beating on his face, and took it as a sign of their approval.

Otto meandered back to the limo, before heading for the next order of business. As they maneuvered from the BQE to the Long Island Expressway, Otto made the call.

“Today you take your place in history,” he began.

“According to the polls, the size of my defeat will be the only thing that will be historical.”

“Nonsense. Your candidacy is going to shape the ideals of the world for the next thousand years.”

“Last I checked, the world wasn’t built on ideals—it was built on kingdoms of wealth.”

“Subtlety has never been your strong suit. The money has been put into your account in Switzerland.”

“All of it?”

“One billion dollars.”

He laughed shamelessly. “That should buy a lot of idealism.”

With that, they hung up. It would be the last time Otto would talk with Theodore Baer until the election was over.

Veronica’s mother always told her that everything would look better in the morning. And like most of her mother’s motivational clichés, they were usually on target, even if she’d never give her the satisfaction of admitting it. But Veronica did give her mother the ultimate compliment—she taught it to her own kids.

But then one morning everything didn’t look better.

Carsten was dead.

It was a similar sun-filled morning to today. But what she would never forget was Maggie and Jamie’s faces. And as the words came out of her mouth, she felt an insidious numbness like she was the one who’d died. She had that same feeling this morning.

Veronica had surprisingly kept it together last night. She knew it was her only chance to get them back safe and sound. One of Carsten’s favorite catchphrases popped into her mind—
pressure either crushes you or turns you into diamonds
.

She entered Jamie’s room, checking on TJ. She looked at the small child snoring away in the miniature race car bed. It devastated her to see TJ lying where Jamie should be. They both should be snuggled in their own beds.

“TJ, sweetie, time to get up for school.”

He turned away from her and buried his head under the pillow. She was momentarily glad to know it wasn’t just her kids who refused to wake up.

She lightly shook him. “Five more minutes, Mom,” he mumbled.

“Okay, five more minutes,” Veronica replied and patted him on top of his head.

She followed an enticing smell downstairs and into the kitchen. It was starting to feel like a typical morning in the Peterson house. At least what used to be a typical morning. Zach was finishing a masterpiece of scrambled eggs and sausage. Carsten was the king of breakfast, and ever since he died the Petersons became a cereal and toast family. It was nice to have breakfast back.

Zach, who had been home to shower and change out of yesterday’s suit, looked no worse for wear after his all-nighter. He wore a blue and white striped button-down with sleeves rolled up, and khakis, looking more business casual today.

He had left a note that instructed Veronica to dress professionally for what he had planned. So she wore a turtleneck sweater with a plaid skirt just above the knee. Her cognac-colored, knee-high boots matched her leather jacket and tote bag. No concert shirts today.

Zach dished three plates of eggs and sausage, and asked, “Is he up?”

Veronica sped by him and began dishing Picasso’s “cat crack.” The furry fellow seemed to want to have a heart-to-heart about the recent lack of attention, but there was no time this morning.

“He said five more minutes.”

Zach chuckled. “He’ll five-more-minutes you until noon if he has his way.”

“He’s yet to deal with my patented Chinese Water Torture knocking method.”

“We tried water-boarding in our house—didn’t even budge.”

The small television on the counter played the local news—the election was dominating the coverage. The latest development was a follow-up to Baer’s controversial comments yesterday. A term paper had shown up on the Internet that Baer had written in college. In it, he compared Hitler to George Washington. You couldn’t make this stuff up.

Baer just finished giving a news conference where he played it off as misguided youth that had nothing to do with today’s election. He was probably right, but regardless, he’d lost almost eight points in the latest poll and was losing steam in the key swing state of Florida.

She buttered a bagel, took a swig of orange juice, and headed back upstairs to torture the hostage. But when she entered Jamie’s room, TJ was nowhere to be found.

It was a nightmare that Veronica kept reliving. She was about to scream down to Zach when she heard running water. She moved down the hall and found TJ brushing his teeth in the bathroom. She let out a sigh of relief, but thought it wouldn’t be long before she started seeing aliens.

She forced a smile at the boy, who must be wondering why the crazy lady just bolted into the bathroom, almost causing him to swallow his toothbrush.

“Oh, you’re up—good. You’re in luck, you were about to get the Chinese Water Torture knock.”

He smiled shyly. “Maggie tells me about that—she says it’s rough.”

Veronica stood proud. Her reputation had spread to the masses. But then she gulped at something else he mentioned.

Maggie.

She’s gone!

Veronica gathered herself enough to say, “Your dad made some eggs if you’re interested.”

“Cool.”

That was the deepest conversation they’d ever had. Either out of habit, or pulled by a strange force, Veronica made her way into Maggie’s room. The smell of her missing daughter turned her heart into the dirty, slushy ice on the street corner that people crunch with their winter boots. She felt like she wanted to curl up and die.

Then she heard a sound. It was coming from outside. This time it wasn’t her paranoia playing tricks. She ran to the window, but couldn’t see the driveway from that angle. She dashed back into the bathroom, again almost knocking over TJ, and opened the window. The morning temperatures were mild for November and the sun was bright.

What she saw was her Tahoe peeling out of the driveway.

Somebody was stealing her car!

When she looked closer, she realized it wasn’t just anybody. Ben Youkelstein had just hot-wired her car—
could this get any stranger?

TJ was now looking over her shoulder, and appeared to be enjoying the grand theft auto.

Veronica watched as her mother ran out of her house in a terrycloth robe, balancing a cup of coffee in her hand.

“You lied to me, mother!” Veronica shouted down at her.

“What are you talking about?”

“You said everything is always better in the morning.”

The modern American family sat at the breakfast table eating eggs and slurping orange juice.

A widow and her mother. A father whose wife was in jail, along with his sweet but anti-social son. Not to mention Picasso, the eccentric feline who was displaying his “catitude”.

Then like the typical family, they’d spend their day trying to get their children back from the Nazis, and hope the ninety-something Nazi hunter didn’t crash Veronica’s car.

The first order of business was for Veronica’s mother to give the blow-by-blow details of Youkelstein’s maladies and how she heroically nursed him back to health. After what she’d just witnessed, Veronica thought she might have done too good of a job.

Youkelstein had filled her in on the details last night. She didn’t look like a total believer, but agreed to take TJ to school today, and watch him afterward until they returned.

TJ didn’t look thrilled by this. Like Maggie, he enjoyed his outcast status. And showing up as the personal guest of the school principal didn’t exactly scream rebel.

“Dad?” he pleaded for help, but got none.

Principal Sweetney stood and dragged TJ to his feet. He looked like a hostage as they headed off for school.

That left just Veronica and Zach. But any thoughts that she might get a brief moment to finish her eggs in peace, quickly evaporated. The election coverage took a small break to mention a story about the oldest living inmate in the state of New York dying last night.

“Rose Shepherd was ninety-nine years old, and had been confined to Bedford Hills prison since 1976 for the murder of Greta Peterson. No cause of death was provided,” said the helmet-haired anchor.