P. Tracy - Live Bait

Marty’s eyebrows arched. ‘So you did know her.’

‘First time I saw her, last time I saw her. Sweet little old white-haired lady in this dress with purple flowers on it and these big clunky shoes, and I wondered what the hell she was doing there, fishing with a couple of old guys like Pop and Ben. Never knew her name. Pop just called her a friend. So we go into this lodge, I’m guessing to check in or something, and there’s nobody in the place because there’s some kind of contest going on at the lake, except this old geezer at the registration desk, and what happens then is that Pop pulls a gun out of his jacket pocket and reaches across the desk and shoots the guy in the head.’ He closed his eyes and just breathed for moment while Marty’s mouth sagged open and his heart started hammering at his chest, as if it were trying to get out. ‘I think I might have screamed then, but I can’t really remember. Next thing I know, Pop hands the gun to Ben, and that old bastard walks around the desk and shoots the guy on the floor, and then he hands the gun to sweet little grandma, and she plugs him a few more times, cool as a cucumber. She got blood and some other stuff all over her dress and those black shoes. Funny, what you remember, isn’t it?’ He gave Marty a lopsided, sad little smile.

Suddenly Marty’s throat was bone-dry, and for a second he marveled at that, and then at the way his voice cracked when he finally spoke. ‘Who was he? Who was the man they killed?’

Jack shrugged. ‘Just another Nazi, like all the others. And you know what happened next?’

Marty stared at him, shook his head mindlessly.

‘Well then, Marty, my man, after Rose was finished, she handed the gun to me.’

Jeff Montgomery was sweating beneath the black rain slicker he wore over dark jeans. It was uncomfortable, but necessary. Before the night was over the cold front would push hard against this monstrous heat layer, the winds would howl, the temperature would drop twenty degrees, and the rain would pour down. Every good Minnesota boy knew when to wear a slicker.

Personally, he was wishing the cold front would get a move on. Hottest April on record, they kept saying, and although he didn’t mind the heat himself, the cool-weather plants were suffering. The other problem was that this kind of heat often broke with a hailstorm, and he didn’t even want to think about that. It was going to be bad enough coming to work tomorrow and dealing with the mud; the thought of hail damage to the tender young plants almost made him sick to his stomach.

And that was funny, he thought – him worrying about plants, when just a few months ago, he wouldn’t have known chickweed from a hydrangea. Engineering was the ticket. His father had been pushing that on him his whole life. But then his folks had died, the dream of college in the East dying with them, and he ended up taking a few classes at the U of M and working for Morey and Lily Gilbert.

He’d learned more about plants from Mrs Gilbert than anything he picked up in classes so far, found he had a knack for it, and before he knew what was happening, he was hooked.

He loved working the soil, testing it in the little tubes for nutrient content, deciding which additives and how much of each were necessary for whatever seedlings he was trying to germinate. That was the engineering part of his brain kicking in, he supposed. But he also loved feeling the soil in his hands and under his nails, seeing the morning dew in a tulip cup, and watching new growth sprout from the sharp, clean cuts of his knife on the candles of a Black Mountain spruce. If he were granted one wish when his work was done, it was to work in this nursery forever, learn from Mrs Gilbert, maybe buy into it when he could put some money together.

Funny, the ways things happened; the way the horror and shock of his parents’ deaths had led him, unwittingly, to the place and the life he was meant for.

The streets around the nursery were completely empty now – everyone in the neighborhood was probably glued to their TVs, waiting for tornadoes and the excited weather-men to tell them when to take cover. Everyone but him, of course. He couldn’t afford to let a little weather scare him off, because he was on a mission, and sometimes missions were very dangerous.

He’d already circled the block around the nursery three times, and found everything as it should be. No armed figures crouching in the bushes, the single squad car that arrived this afternoon still in its original place in the parking lot, and most important, Mrs Gilbert still safe in the house.

A rumble of distant thunder made him jump a little, and he covered a nervous giggle with his hand. The sky was getting blacker by the minute, and off to the west, webs of cloud-to-cloud lightning flashed, followed by more ominous thunder, charging the air with excitement. God, this was fun. Meek, quiet Jeff Montgomery slinking around in the near-darkness, eyes sharp and busy checking all the shadows, strangely titillated by the possibility of danger.

When he reached the nursery’s hedgerow, he pressed himself into the greenery and moved slowly and stealthily, inch by inch, along the screen. He rotated his head, covering all directions, keeping a sharp eye out for anything suspicious, maintaining his cover. He couldn’t afford to be seen – if Mr Pullman or the officer spotted him, it’d be all over and they’d send him packing, or even worse, they might shoot him by accident. He had to be very, very careful.

At this moment, it didn’t seem at all odd to be thinking of all the things the Gilberts had done for him – paying him twice what other nurseries paid their help, covering the cost of his classes, even helping him out with rent if he came up a little short on the first of the month. He knew she didn’t expect it, but someday he was going to pay back every dime to Mrs Gilbert. It was the least he could do.

He felt a secret thrill when he realized he was now on the nursery property, and so far, no one had spotted him… made him, he amended. Darn, he was good at this. Maybe he should quit school and join the CIA.

The last time Marty Pullman had felt this way – like someone had flicked a switch and shut off his brain – he’d been sitting on the cold cement of the parking ramp, looking down at his dead wife.

A lot of the emotions that had gone through him that night were fighting for their place in line again – disbelief, outrage, shock, and finally, a sadness beyond measuring. Jack was right about that stupid Elvis analogy, and now his world was rocking and he didn’t know which end was up. How do you get past learning that a man you’d worshiped, idolized because he was so much better than you could ever hope to be, had been every bit as flawed as you were? And maybe a little bit more, he thought, if you looked at it numerically. A silly part of his mind looking for distraction had tried to estimate how many men Morey had killed during the years when he’d had his son-in-law the cop over for Sunday dinner once a week. And just when the outrage started to set in, the sense of betrayal, he almost laughed aloud. Was there really such a difference between murdering Nazis and murdering the man who had killed your wife?

No wonder you loved him so much. You were two of a kind.

Jack had been totally silent for the past few minutes, maybe giving Marty time to absorb what he’d said so far, maybe waiting for the big question Marty was almost afraid to ask. So Rose Kleber had taken her turn shooting the old man behind the fishing lodge counter, and then handed the gun to Jack.

What did you do, Jack? What the hell did you do?

Jack giggled drunkenly, and Marty realized he’d asked the question aloud. ‘Actually, I threw up. Hurled all over the floor, the gun, and the old lady’s hand. Boy, was she pissed. Not as pissed as Pop, though. He kept telling me to shoot him, “shoot the Nazi bastard” were his exact words, and that was the first time I had an inkling of what was going on. Maybe if he’d been in one of those S.S. outfits torturing somebody I could have done it. I guess I’ll never know. But the thing was, I didn’t see any Nazi. I just saw this really old, messy dead guy.’