Peter Leonard - Back from the Dead

Hess ripped the duct tape off Zeller’s mouth leaving red marks where the adhesive had stuck to his skin. Zeller’s arms flexed, pulling at the restraints.

“You are with Bundeskriminalamt.”

“No.”

“Where are the other agents?”

“I’m alone.”

“Sure you are.” Hess wrapped the wet towel around his face, picked up the bucket and started to pour.

Zeller knew that as soon as he gave up Gerhard Braun’s name it would be all over. Hess would finish him. He tried to hold his breath but the water came and kept coming and now he was gagging, pulling on the ropes, muscles flexing, chest heaving, lungs burning. Then he was drowning, under water, and his air was gone and he started to lose consciousness, started to fade and the water stopped. Hess removed the towel, Zeller spat water out of his mouth and blew it out his nose, tried to focus on Hess through bleary eyes.

“Who sent you?”

“Give me a minute.”

Hess draped the towel over his face again before he could take a breath, and then water filled his nose and mouth and he was gagging, out of air, experiencing fresh trauma, the pain severe and then, like before, he was starting to go under.

Zeller opened his eyes looking up at the rafters. There was a strip of tape over his mouth and his nose was plugged. He snorted out water and felt the passages clear, inhaling as much air as he could. He heard the faucet on in the kitchen, Hess filling the bucket again. Zeller didn’t know how much more he could take.

He heard a car drive in and park next to the house, and a car door open and close. Heard the doorbell ring. The faucet in the kitchen was turned off. He heard someone banging on the front door. Heard voices and then footsteps on the concrete outside the garage. And then someone banging on the garage door, the echo reverberating around him.

A voice said, “Pompano Beach Police. Is anyone home?”

Zeller grunted under the tape, tried to lift his head, neck muscles bulging but he didn’t have the strength to do it. He heard footsteps going back to the car. He heard the door close, the engine start, and the car drive off.

Standing at the kitchen sink, Hess heard the phone ring, and the answering machine click on. A woman’s voice said, “Mr. Hoffman, this is the Pompano Beach Police. An officer will be arriving at your home any minute. Please answer your door.”

A Palm Beach cruiser rolled up the driveway and parked next to the house. A policeman in a tan uniform got out, looking around. He seemed to be focusing on water that had streamed out from under the garage door and pooled on the concrete driveway.

Hess heard the doorbell ring. He moved through the house to the living room, saw the policeman at the front door. On the street a tow truck was backing up next to Zeller’s Ford sedan. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lois Grant approaching. She and the policeman talked for several minutes, Lois pointing at the tow truck.

Lois walked around the house, looking in windows. He heard the French doors rattle, Lois shaking the handles, face distorted, pressed against a glass pane. After a while she gave up and went back to her house, and Hess went back to the living room. He watched the police car back down the driveway. On the street the tow truck was lifting the front end of Zeller’s sedan.

Hess finished filling the bucket and carried it into the garage. Zeller had had a nice long rest, and now he would have to start all over. Zeller’s eyes were closed. Hess stood over him, ripped the tape off his mouth and Zeller’s eyes popped open. “You can stop the pain. You can save yourself from any further discomfort. Tell me who sent you.”

“Gerhard Braun,” Zeller said.

Good old Gerhard, Hess was thinking. You can’t trust anyone.

“Mr. Hoffman, don’t you get nervous carrying around that much cash?” the homely, big-breasted teller said. “I know I would be.”

“That’s just it,” Hess said. “Nobody would suspect someone of carrying that much. It is totally unexpected.”

“You have a wonderful day,” the fat teller said.

Hess walked out of the National Bank of Florida with $6,500 of Max Hoffman’s savings. Earlier he had stopped and withdrawn like amounts from two other NBF branches, and now had a total of $19,500. That was enough for today. Hess was concerned about attracting too much attention.

He had had a relaxing afternoon on the beach across from the Winthrop House, resting and looking at women in bikinis. From the cabana Hess could train his binoculars on select females, studying them, wondering how they would perform in bed. It had been over a month since he had been with a woman and he was feeling the urge. Thinking about finding a prostitute, but he wanted a woman with class, not a street hooker.

By five most of the sunbathers had packed up their belongings and departed. The sun was fading. Hess felt a cool breeze blow in from the ocean. He focused the binoculars on Joyce Cantor’s empty balcony, hoping to see her standing there but didn’t.

Hess drove back to Pompano, cruised past Lois Grant’s house, turned into Max’s driveway, pushed the remote and backed into the garage. He closed the door and opened the trunk. Zeller was right where Hess had left him, head over the edge of the worktable, duct tape over his mouth, panic in his eyes, pants wet where he had urinated.

“I have good news. You are going to be released soon.”

Zeller was making sounds under the tape. He obviously didn’t believe it. He wanted to talk. Of course he wanted to talk. Hess pulled the tape off his mouth. “You were saying, comrade.”

“Bring me the phone. I’ll tell Herr Braun you’re dead.”

Hess smiled, he couldn’t help himself. He thought Zeller would say something like that. A person in this situation would say anything to stay alive.

“That won’t be necessary.”

He ripped a fresh strip of tape off the roll and fit it over Zeller’s mouth.

At 3:00 a.m. Hess went out to the garage. Zeller was asleep. He could hear him breathing through his nose, a nice easy rhythm. Zeller awoke while Hess was taping his ankles together. The man struggled as Hess turned him over and taped his wrists together. Hess moved the car closer to the worktable, slid Zeller off of it into the trunk and closed the lid.

He took Interstate 95 north to PGA Boulevard and east toward Singer Island. Past A1A Hess could see glimpses of Lake Worth. The causeway between North Palm Beach and Singer Island was dark. He had driven this stretch of road earlier and decided it was the perfect place to dump a body. With Lois Grant snooping around he couldn’t take a chance burying Zeller on Max’s property.

When he could see water on both sides of the road Hess slowed down and pulled over. He got out, looked up at a half moon, felt a breeze come at him from the lake. He opened the trunk, reached in, took hold of Zeller, pulled him out and dropped him on the hard-packed dirt roadside. Hess, breathing hard from the effort, bent over, hands on his knees. When he got his wind back he squatted, lifted Zeller’s ankles and started to drag him toward the water. Zeller bent his legs, kicked and sent Hess to the ground holding one of Zeller’s shoes that had come off. Hess scrambled to his feet, moved to Zeller, kicked him in the face, took the fight out of him. Zeller was conscious but woozy as Hess dragged him to the water’s edge. Hess heard something, looked and saw headlights approaching from the island. He pushed Zeller in the lake and watched him thrash, trying to stay afloat, and then disappear in the dark water, bubbles rising to the surface.

The car was approaching, slowing down. It crossed the center line and stopped on the side of the road in front of Max Hoffman’s Chrysler. It was a police cruiser. The policeman got out with a flashlight and came toward him, aiming the high beam in his face. Hess blinked and squinted, brought his hand up to shield his eyes.