Christopher Reich - The Runner

Judge was getting the idea, all right. Over here, rules didn’t count for much. Mullins had said it better.This is Germany, lad. There is no law.

Five minutes later, Honey pulled the Jeep to the side of the road and pointed at a three-storey concrete scarecrow, the last structure left standing on the entire block. “Thar she blows. Number Twenty-one Lindenstrasse.”

Judge put his hands on the dash and stood, staring hard at the building. It was a typical Wilhelmine affair: steep mansard roof with dormer windows, solid terraces fronting the windows on the second floor, colonnaded entry. Or at least it used to be. The place had taken some thumping. Fire had gutted half of it. One corner was demolished and there were enough holes in the place to make it look like a Swiss cheese.

“Believe it or not, this used to be quite a neighborhood,” said Honey. “Not your Sutton Place, but definitely your Upper West Side.”

Judge shot Honey an annoyed glance. “I thought you were from Texas?”

“Got a sister in Manhattan. I visited her once.”

“Just once?” Judge was beginning to think there was more to Honey and his Silver Star than met the eye. “Well, Sergeant, what do you say? Shall we have a look-see?”

But Honey was already out of the Jeep, drawing his pistol and cocking the hammer in a single fluid motion. “I was about to suggest the same thing. If I’m not mistaken, I caught somebody peeking at us from an upstairs window. How much you care to wager it’s Mr Seyss, himself?”

Judge jumped to the ground, drawing his pistol and hustling across the street. “Didn’t you say something back

there about a rooster and eggs?”

“Me?” Honey spun, slowing long enough to offer Judge his already familiar grin. “What the hell do I know about chickens? In Texas we got steers.”

And then they were inside the house.

Judge followed Honey toward the house, his stride lengthening to a jog, then a run. He bolted up the steps through the front door, and reaching the foyer, slammed into his driver’s back.

“Slow down,” cautioned Honey, pointing to the absent flooring. “You don’t want to end up down there.”

Judge stepped to the edge of the white-tiled foyer. Large bites had been torn from the wooden floor, revealing a latticework of spars none more than six inches across. Here and there, the ceiling of the basement was visible. Mostly, though, he could only see darkness and wonder how far it was to the cellar floor. He cast an ear upward, straining to catch a footfall.

“Go to the back door and don’t let anyone by,” he ordered Honey, flicking the pistol toward a dim corridor leading to the rear of the house. “Odds are whoever you saw up there is a squatter, someone looking for a place to stay, maybe scrounge some firewood. Let’s talk to him. I doubt it’s Seyss, but who knows, maybe he’s seen him around, maybe he knew him before the war. Understood?”

Honey nodded enthusiastically, not believing a word. “Got it.”

“And Sergeant,” Judge added, his voice tighter than expected. “Go easy with that firearm.”

“Yessir.” Honey offered a smile, but his voice was absent its friendly tone. “But I’ll thank you not to tell me how to handle my pistol.” Sliding by Judge, he mounted a spar and walked nimbly toward the rear of the house.

Judge followed a second later, finding the going more difficult. The narrow beam looked like a tightrope. Below him, stars of light reflected off puddles dampening the basement floor. He guessed the distance to be twenty feet. A long, hard fall onto concrete. Eyes glued to the spar, arms flung to either side of him, he proceeded, moving faster as his confidence grew. Reaching the stairs, he took off at a devilish clip. A single flight betrayed his poor condition. He’d given up cigarettes five years ago, but his lungs felt tired and unfit. Too many all-nighters stoked by coffee, chops, and a bourbon constitutional.

He paused on the first floor landing to suck down some air and listen for footsteps. Nothing. He stood for a moment, poised to set off, arm cocked, pistol brushing his cheek. Six years after he’d turned in his shield, the gun fit in his palm snug as a preacher’s bible. Hammer cocked, safety off. It was all coming back to him.

Charging up the second flight of stairs, he enjoyed a sudden spurt of adrenaline. This is what he had loved about being a policeman: the cornering of a suspect, the apprehension of a fugitive, the cathartic rush of delivering a guilty soul into the legal system. Too often, though, the arrests didn’t translate into convictions. Charges were dropped for lack of evidence. A two-bit hoodlum skipped bail. A lazy prosecutor bungled the case. Judge couldn’t stand seeing his work undone, so he became an attorney.

He climbed the final flight of stairs slowly, letting his breath come back to him. A dusky corridor greeted his arrival on the top floor. He picked out a voice humming softly in the room down the hallway to his right. He dropped the .45 to his side, his finger caressing the trigger’s smooth slope, the weapon’s strangely animate heft promising retribution, if not justice. A masculine form flitted across the doorway, then disappeared from view without glancing in his direction. A silhouette backlit by the morning sun. Strange, thought Judge. He’d pounded up the stairs like a wounded bull elephant. Why wasn’t the guy curious who else was in the building?

Abandoning any pretence of stealth, he took the hallway in three long strides and crossed the threshold into a sunfilled room. A harsh morning glare hit him squarely in the eyes, forcing him to squint. A legion of dust stirred in the air. The room reeked of charred wood and mildewed paint.

The man stood at the far wall, a thin strap stretched between his hands, concerned for all the world with measuring a gaping hole cited high between the two windows. He wore baggy gray trousers and a blue workman’s coat, a dark rally cap pulled low over his forehead. Horn rimmed spectacles obscured his eyes. He was still humming.

“ Hände auf dem Kopf ,” Judge shouted. “Hands on your head. Turn around slowly.”

The man jumped at the sound of Judge’s voice, spinning rapidly, doing as he was told. When he saw the pistol pointed at him, he jumped again. “Please,” he blurted. “I’m a friend.”

“Walk slowly toward me,” said Judge. “Now!” It was the first time he’d spoken German since arriving and the crisp, officious words settled him to his task.

“My name is Licht,” the man said, his tremulous voice pitched high. “I am with the city building authority. Bureau five, section A. I’m attached to Colonel Allen’s office.” He smiled weakly, then lifted a hand from his head to gesture at the flaking walls. “The whole thing will have to come down, you know. Fire, shelling, Christ, even the joists are kaput. Dry rot, I’d say. Bet the fools living here didn’t even know. It will never do for an officer’s club.”

But Judge wasn’t listening. His attention was riveted on the man’s face, and his hands, too, lest he make any sudden move.

“Shut up and take off your cap. Drop it to your side.”

Licht hesitated a moment before complying. The cap dropped like a rock to the floor, and to Judge’s anxious ear, it made about as much noise. A shock of black hair fell across Licht’s brow. He brushed it back and stood straighter, venturing a nervous smile. Judge studied his features, careful not to lose eye contact as he drew the photo of Erich Seyss from his breast pocket. Holding it level with the snout of his pistol, he compared one face to the other. The animal who had ordered his brother’s death to the frightened building inspector standing ten feet away. Chin. Lips. Nose. All were more or less the same, but he couldn’t be sure.