Christopher Reich - The Runner

And he froze.

Devlin Judge emerged from the bachelor officers’ quarters at six a.m., eager to begin his search for Erich Seyss. The air was cool and damp, the dawn mist rapidly burning off to reveal a cloudless sky. Birds chirped everywhere in the verdant canopy that shaded the streets of Bad Toelz.

A lone Jeep was parked at the curb. Seeing Judge, a lean, compact soldier jumped from behind the driver’s wheel and brought himself to attention. “Morning, Major,” he called. “First Sergeant Darren C. Honey at your service.”

Judge returned the salute. “I needed you yesterday, Sergeant. Where were you?”

“I apologize,” said Honey. “Roads in this country are all crapped out. It was all I could do to get here last night. Colonel Mullins personally brought me up to date on the case.”

“Did he?” Judge fended off a smirk. Instead of sending Honey to him, Mullins had briefed him himself. He wanted there to be no question who was in charge of the investigation. “So I take it you know who we’re looking for and why?”

“Yes, sir. And if I might take this moment, I’d like to offer my condolences. I’m sorry about your brother.”

Judge dismissed the remark with a grateful smile. “So, Sergeant, did you volunteer for this snipe hunt or did Mullins shanghai you into it?”

“Volunteered, sir.” Honey’s face darkened as if his integrity had been impugned and he puffed out his chest that much more because of it. “Word came down General Patton needed help tracking down a fugitive. That kind of work is right up our alley. Thirty-second CIC in Augsburg, that is. We call ourselves ‘Nazi hunters’. It’s our mission to track down the krauts who haven’t turned themselves in yet. This is the first chance we’ve had to go after one who killed some of our boys.”

Judge smiled at his escort’s unvarnished enthusiasm, thinking the little guy would fit in pretty good on a stoop on Atlantic Avenue. Even with his helmet, Honey was shorter by a head. He had a card sharp’s blue eyes and a smile as wide as his southern accent. At first glance he looked the model soldier. Eisenhower jacket buttoned snugly over a khaki shirt and tie; olive drab trousers bloused neatly into spit-shined jump boots. But his .45 caliber sidearm was all cowboy, slung low on the hip and ready for the quick draw.

Judge threw his briefcase into the back of the Jeep, then pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. “Twenty-one Lindenstrasse, know where it is?”

“Spent four months in this part of the country. Guess I’d better.” Honey waved away the paper, circling the Jeep and hopping in behind the wheel. “That part of town got hit up and down. B-17s took out a rail yard near there and infantry tore it up taking the city.”

“So I’ve been told, but that’s where Seyss grew up. I’m hoping we can talk to a neighbor, get a feel for what kind of guy he is. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky and find him sleeping in his old bed.”

“Sooner find a rooster warming an egg,” cracked Honey, tipping back his helmet as if it were his Sunday Stetson. “And if you’ll beg my pardon, I can tell you what kind of guy Seyss is already. Major in the Waffen-SS. Made it through six years of the war in one piece. He’s a survivor, sir. He won’t go near the place. Dollar to a dime, he’s in Italy as we speak.”

Judge climbed in beside the driver, fixing him with a no-nonsense stare. “If you believed that, you wouldn’t have volunteered. Now, let’s get the hell out of here.”

Honey fired the engine and brought the Jeep round in a wide arc, accelerating down the narrow streets and out of town. Settling back, Judge recognized a curious tingling in the hollow of his gut. The spark of a new case. The thrill of not knowing what lay around the corner. The petty excitement he’d given up when he’d left the force. All of these were heightened by his presence in the enemy’s homeland and for a few minutes he was genuinely happy. But soon, those sentiments faded, dragged down by the leaden weight hanging from his web belt. He glanced at the .45 caliber Colt commander snuggled in its scarred leather holster. Nine bullets in the cartridge and one in the snout. When expecting action, release the safety and cock the hammer. That way you don’t have to put your full weight on the trigger to fire the first shot. It was all coming back now.

“Looks like you’ve been overseas a long time,” he said, eyeing the twin rows of multi-colored ribbons that adorned Honey’s chest.

“’Bout my whole life,” answered Honey. “I shipped out in November of ’42. Operation Torch — the landings in North Africa. Hitched a ride to Sicily, then got put ashore in Anzio. Tell you the truth, I’m ready to get home.”

“Where’s that?”

“Place you’ve never heard of. Harlingen, Texas. Queen of the Rio Grande Valley.”

“You’re right. Never head of it. But what do I know? I’m from New York City.” “Yes sir,” said Honey, shooting him his best shit-eating grin. “Kind of shows.”

Judge accepted the rebuke with a laugh, then returned his eye to a sturdy angle iron rising perpendicularly from the center of the front bumper. For the last fifteen minutes, he’d been trying to figure out what the devil it was. Stymied, he pointed to it and asked Honey for an explanation.

“Werewolves,” the Texan answered. “Krauts who don’t want to surrender. They’ve taken to stringing wire across the roads at night. If you’re on a motorcycle, or riding in one of these Jeeps with your windshield down, a string of concertina can take your head off. They haven’t killed anyone yet, but they’ve blinded a couple and given a few more a decent haircut. That iron cuts the wire nicely.”

Judge felt an anxious twinge in his gut. “Are there many of them?”

“Werewolves?” Honey shrugged and his hand brushed against the butt of his pistol. “Rumor is there might be a horde of them holed up in the mountains south of here. I doubt it myself. Tell you the truth, most krauts are as tired of this whole damned mess as we are. Still, every once in a while we find one who doesn’t want to come in of his own volition.”

“Sounds dangerous,” he said.

Honey shrugged off the suggestion. “These days, it isn’t the Nazis who’re so bad. It’s the wives or girlfriends who’re protecting them. Just last week, a pretty young fraulein came after me with a pitchfork.” He nodded his head for emphasis. “She wasn’t joking. No sir.”

A distinctive ribbon of red, white and blue stood out among the “fruit salad” on Honey’s chest. Judge recognized it as the Silver Star Mullins had mentioned, a citation given for extraordinary gallantry in combat. Shifting his gaze, he traded the varied hues of Honey’s ribbons for the gray expanse of road stretching in front of them. He was in Germany now, on occupied soil in another man’s country. Less than two months ago, over six million German soldiers had been ordered to lay down their arms. It made sense that a few were upset at no longer being the vaunted “supermen” that Hitler loved to crow about.

For a while, the two men rode in silence. Honey kept his eyes pinned to the road, driving the Jeep as if they were in a cross-country rally: powering into turns, braking at the last moment, accelerating on the straightaway. Judge clamped one hand to the dashboard and the other to his seat for fear he’d be bounced out the vehicle. Seeing the speedometer reach sixty, he swallowed hard. He’d never enjoyed driving, and, in fact, didn’t even carry a license. Growing up, he’d been too poor to own a car. Nowadays, he was too busy. To ease his anxiety, he reviewed the measures he’d put into effect the previous afternoon to bring about the rapid apprehension of Erich Siegfried Seyss.