The Living Death (11 page)

"You are awake," the woman said, a faint Swiss accent to her English. "Very good." I'd been right, even in my fuzzy, hazy state. She had a lovely face, sweet and gentle, with fine lips and blonde hair pulled around her head in a halo-like fashion. She wore a dirndl skirt and a deep blue blouse that matched her soft blue eyes.

"How do you feel?" she asked, leaning over me and putting the lamp down on a little wooden table I hadn't seen beside the cot. A chair was also next to it.

"As though I'd fallen out of a speeding train," I said.

"Which is exactly what you did, Mr. Carter," she smiled. "Though jumped is the word, not fallen." She smiled and sat down on the chair. The blouse pulled tighter against deep, heavy breasts. "I went through your papers, I'm afraid," she apologized almost shyly, her lips soft in a slow smile. "And those men who stopped by, they told me they were looking for an escaped prisoner who had leaped from the train."

She shuddered and her eyes suddenly took on a faraway look. "They were frightening," she went on. "Ruthless. Cold. They'll be back. I'm sure of it."

"Why are you sure of it?" I asked.

"I've had experience with their type before," she answered simply, a terrible sadness clouding her face.

"But you didn't believe what they said about me?"

"No," she replied. "Prisoners don't carry the land of passport and papers you had on you, Mr. Carter. I don't know why they were after you, but it's not because you're a common escaped prisoner."

"Thank you for being so astute," I said. "What is your name?"

"Emilie," she said. "Emilie Grutska, and this is my daughter, Gerda."

"Is your husband away?" I asked.

"No," she said. "Gerda and I run the farm alone. My husband
is
dead. You rest now." She stood up, dismissing any more conversation about the matter. "I will be back later," she said. "I shall put Gerda to bed."

I watched the woman and the child climb the steps and close the trap door. The short conversation had taxed me, I was amazed and angry to find. My eyes closed, despite myself, and I was asleep in seconds. I woke only when I heard the trap door being opened. Emilie was alone this time, a shawl wrapped around an opaque nightgown and her hair hanging long behind her back. There was an old-style kind of beauty to this woman, I saw, delicate yet strong, young and yet womanly, a Vermeer painting come to life. She carried a small iron pot with a long handle and a spoon sticking out of it. The pot contained a soup which tasted absolutely wonderful. She sat down on the chair beside me and watched as I drank the soup, sipping it slowly. She propped me up with an extra pillow and looked at me as I sat up, my chest naked, the smooth hard-muscled skin belying the inner pain of my body.

"Your clothes were ruined, of course," she said. "Your personal things are in the corner there with some work pants and a shirt I think will fit you, when you're ready for them, that
is.
I think it may be a while yet."

She hesitated for a moment, and then smiled slowly, that half sad, slow smile of hers. "I hope you are not embarrassed that I stripped you," she said. "I think not, though. You are not the kind of man that embarrasses easily. That seems, somehow, obvious about you, Mr. Carter."

"Nick," I said.

"I did not want to talk about my husband before Gerda," she said. "The child knows enough. She need not know the details at this time. The Soviets killed my husband. He was a Hungarian and he became a freedom fighter during the occupation. I am Swiss, and we were living in Hungary at the time. The Russians caught him after a long search. That's why I know those men who stopped here. I've met their counterparts before, many times. My parents had died and this was their farm. I took the child and fled. We returned here and we have been working the farm ever since. It is hard work, but we are happy."

"No help at all?" I asked. "No young men interested in two such lovely girls?"

"I hire extra help dining harvest," she said. "As for your men, here in Europe they are not interested in women with children. Maybe sometime, someday, I will meet someone. Who knows?" That smile that was at once saddening and warming passed over her face.

"If they're coming back, I've got to get out of here," I said.

"You are not strong enough yet," the woman said. "You wouldn't get far between the shock to your system and the loss of blood from your leg. Besides, they won't find you here. You are safe."

She stood up. "I am going to change the dressing on your leg," she said, opening a wooden chest on the other side of the small cellar and taking out fresh strips of cloth. She worked quietly, tenderly, with a minimum of pain to me. Yet when she was through, I was more than happy to sink back on the cot. She gave me a final smile of encouragement as she disappeared up the steps and the trap door closed me in the darkness again. Nick Carter, I said to myself, sometimes you're a lucky bastard.

I slept late into the morning and was awakened by muffled voices from the floor above. I sat up. My body had stopped aching so completely but the leg was still plenty sore. After a while the voices died away and Emilie came down.

"I told you they'd be back," she said grimly. "There were two more this time, six in all." There was a set stubbornness to her face as I watched her change the dressing on my leg again. "They have been asking at every farmhouse in the area, I hear," she said.

"They're banking on the fact that I couldn't really travel far," I said. "And they're right, too. But they won't get me and they won't harm you."

"Do not worry about me," she said. "I am more happy than you know to help anyone against them. Nick…" she paused, "what do they want you for? Who are you, really?"

She deserved the truth and I told her without going into the details of the living death and Karl Krisst.

"I had imagined something like that," she said, pausing at the steps and looking back at me. "It is good to know there are men such as you on our side. They are cold and ruthless. They are hard to stop. But I think you could outmatch them, Nick. Yes, I think so… yes, I do."

I grinned at her. "You think I'm cold and ruthless?"

"When it is time for cold and ruthless action, I think so," she answered seriously. I shrugged. It was a pretty good evaluation. She left and I went back to my resting. It was paying off. By that evening, I was feeling decidedly better. The leg was my main problem. It had a good hole in it that luckily had missed tearing away vital muscle. But it still hurt like hell. When Emilie came down with milk and cheese she smiled, but I immediately detected a troubled expression in her eyes. I smelled it out at once.

They were back," I said flatly. She nodded.

"They traced the blood trail to where I put you in the wheelbarrow," she said. "It just disappears there and they are perplexed by that."

"Perplexed and suspicious of you," I added. She didn't answer. She didn't need to. I knew Vanuskin's kind of mind. Dogged, persistent, unimaginative, its very unimaginativeness an asset in this kind of operation. He couldn't imagine my doing anything clever to get away, and so he'd keep on plodding and searching. I made up my mind right then and there. I was going to clear out. I wouldn't jeopardizing Emilie and the child any longer. I changed the topic to talk about the farm. Emilie was happy to go along with it and told me of her two proud possessions, a four-disc plow on her tractor and a Volkswagen panel truck. The plow, she proudly told me, was seventeen feet across, and the four, razor-sharp disc blades could harrow an entire field in one day. We talked till it was time for her to put Gerda to bed and she left me alone again.

I lay awake, thinking of my next move. One thing was certain. I wasn't going to stay in the house any longer. If they came back again they might decide to get rough and really search the place. If I were there, they'd kill the child and Emilie as well as me. But I knew the leg needed another day of rest, at least. I decided on the barn. They had no doubt already given that a good going over. I could stay out of sight of everyone there. Satisfied with my plans, I lay back and Emilie returned before going to bed herself, this time wearing blue pajamas under the long shawl. We talked quietly a little while longer and then, as she started to go, I held her wrist.

"May I say something in my own way?" I asked. She nodded, her eyes soft. I leaned forward and kissed her gently. Her lips only parted for a moment, enough for a brief reply.

"Thank you for everything, Emilie," I said quietly. She understood and said nothing, except for the gratitude in her eyes. "You are as good as you are lovely, Emilie Grutska," I said, meaning every damn word of it.

I lay quietly in the darkness again, but this time I didn't fall asleep. I waited, far into the night, making certain they were both fast asleep. I slipped from the cot, dressed in the work pants and shirt I found in the corner along with my papers and Hugo, who I carefully strapped into place on my forearm. The leg still giving me plenty of pain, I carefully opened the trap door, found there was a small scatter rug over it which I carefully replaced, and made my way from the house. It was my way of saying thank you.

I watched the dawn come up from my perch in the hayloft of the barn. From it, reached by a side ladder, I had a clear view of the house, most of the pasture and a deep ravine to the left, all through the two open doors. I'd noted the gleaming four-bladed disk plow standing in a corner of the barn, opposite the cow stalls. Every step up the ladder had sent tearing pains up my leg, and I'd been happy to lie hidden in the hay of the loft, letting the pain subside. As dawn rose, I closed my eyes and dropped off to sleep again. Pain, I concluded, is a great narcotic. The sounds of movement below awoke me and I peeked out to see Gerda letting the cows out to pasture. I gazed out the wide, open doorway and saw Emilie emerge from the house to scan the pasture slowly, her eyes covering every inch of the field. I knew what she was looking for — a sign of me. She had found me gone. I had no doubts that she'd understand.

Gerda finished hurrying the cows into the pasture and left. I turned over on my back and rested some more. I wanted to give the leg all the help I could. I'd be needing it soon enough. A scream almost made me sit bolt upright. I rolled over on my stomach and peered out the barn doors. I saw Vanuskin and his crew, all six of them. Two of them were holding Emilie and as I watched, Vanuskin slapped her again across the face, using the back of his hand. Emilie cried out again. Another of the Russians was holding Gerda by the arm. Then I saw what Vanuskin held in his other hand, a bundle of blood-soaked cloths. I put the picture together at once. They'd been snooping around and found the cloths Emilie had used to bandage my leg. She had put them into the garbage pile, probably, instead of burning them. I cursed myself for not having thought to tell her.

"Where is he, bitch?" I heard Vanuskin snarl. He was furious. He'd probably been catching hell from Moscow for letting me get away and now he had his first, real opening.

"Strip her and tie her to that tree," Vanuskin ordered one of his men, pointing to a young oak nearby. While Gerda gasped, they ripped the clothes from Emilie and she was dragged to the tree and tied to it. Her face had grown scarlet in shame and embarrassment as she stood helplessly naked. She had, as I'd guessed, a full-blown figure, heavy by American standards, but properly proportioned, large, heavy hips balancing the heavy breasts and legs that were shapely enough. Like her face, it was an old-fashioned kind of figure, girlish and womanly together. I saw one of the Russian heavyweights take off his leather belt at Vanuskin's direction. The Russian drew back his arm and lashed out with the belt. It slammed across Emilie's stomach, and she screamed in pain. A red welt appeared instantly over her white skin.

"That was only a sample," Vanuskin said. "Where is he? Where have you hidden him?"

"He's not here," Emilie spit out. "I don't know anything about him." Vanuskin signaled with a flick of his finger. The Russian with the belt stepped forward and swung again. He followed it with another and then another, beating the woman with a sadistic pleasure. I watched, teeth clenched in anger, as Emilie's white skin became a mass of ugly red welts and bruises. She screamed constantly now. Vanuskin ordered a halt and I saw Emilie's head fall forward, her body quivering in sobs.

"You are ready to talk now?" he demanded, pulling her head back by the hair. Emilie looked at Gerda, who had stood still in the Russian's grip, transfixed by horror and fear, her cheeks tear-stained.

'Tell them nothing, my darling," Emilie shouted. "These are the land who killed your father."

I saw the child suddenly tear her arm loose and twist away from the Russian's grab. She raced off, straight toward the barn.

"Let her go," I heard Vanuskin order. "Well get what we want to know from her mother. Go to work on her again."

Emilie's screams mingled with the heart-rending sobs of the child as she ran into the barn to stand for a moment almost directly below me, holding her hands to her ears, trying to shut out her mother's anguished screams. I'd have to act. Emilie wouldn't crack, there was steel-like determination behind that gentle exterior; but soon her lovely, full body would start to rip apart under the lash. She'd bear scars that time could never heal. I called to Gerda, who had run into one of the stalls to cower there. She looked up in astonishment.

"Up here, Gerda" I whispered. "Come here, quickly." She scrambled up the ladder, eyes wide. Desperate moments bring desperate plans. I had been studying the ravine I'd noticed to the left. It was about ten feet deep and not more than eighteen feet across, I guessed. That was fine. The tighter the fit the better. It ran about fifty feet or more.

"We're going to save your mama," I said to the child. "But I'll need your help. You've got to do exactly as I tell you, understand?"