Christopher Reich - The Runner

“Now your glasses. Take them off and get away from the window.”

Licht took a defiant step forward, fear hardening to obduracy. “I won’t go anywhere until you put that gun down. I’ve already told you who I am. If you’d like to see my papers, I’ll be happy to oblige. The war’s been over two months. It is time for this nonsense to stop.” And as he spoke an interesting thing occurred. The sun crept an inch higher on the yardarm and a shaft of light caught Mr Licht of the Munich Building Authority, Bureau five, section A, squarely in the face, piercing the lenses of his spectacles and firing the luminous blue eyes poised behind them.

Judge had never before seen eyes that color.

“Please take off your glasses,” he repeated.

His voice was calm, quiet even, but his heart was racing full throttle. Slipping the photo of Seyss into his pocket, he took a step to the rear, wanting to guard a safe distance between them. He had him. Sturmbannführer Erich Siegfried Seyss. Germany’s White Lion. Francis Xavier Judge’s killer.

Staring at this man, a feeling unlike anything he’d experienced took possession of him. His neck flushed, his stomach hardened, and he had an urgent need to blink very rapidly, not to drive away tears, but to ease the crescendo of hatred bursting in his ears. He was no longer looking at Licht, the building inspector, but at Seyss, the SS Major who enjoyed burying his boot in the back of wounded Americans as a prelude to firing a bullet into their brains.

“Take off your glasses!” he shouted, his calm a distant memory.

Seyss shrugged, then removed the black frames, folding them and sliding them into his jacket. “If you wish.”

Judge stared into his face. He had no illusions about getting some measure of the man, of fathoming even for an instant what powered this unfeeling beast. He only wanted to read his expression when he emptied his entire clip into his gut and left a string of bullet holes across his torso mimicking the wounds that had killed Francis.

“Major Judge, everything hunky dory up there?” Honey’s voice, vaulting from the ground floor, surprised him. Seyss’s eyes flicked toward the hallway and Judge gripped the pistol harder, expecting the SS man to leap at him.

Yes, you murderous bastard, there are two of us. This is the end of the line.

But Seyss did not move. If anything, he looked more relaxed than before, as if Honey were exactly the person he’d been waiting for. Inside, though, Judge knew he was sweating.

Lowering the pistol so that the barrel was aimed at Seyss’s chest, he ratcheted his finger a notch. The trigger passed its first safety, and in the silence that had enveloped the room, the click was audible. His arm tensed reflexively, muscles readying to arrest the pistol’s violent kick. He heard Mullins whispering to him, “This is Germany, lad. There isn’t any law.” Patton barking, “Don’t bring me the sonuvabitch. Just kill him.”

“No, Judge told himself. He would not follow that route. Down there lies darkness. Down there lies the past. Interrogation rooms sour with stale sweat and spilled blood. Shattered cheekbones and broken noses that mapped the swiftest route to the truth. His own unsleeping history.

And suddenly, the tide of anger crested, reason asserting itself over revenge.

“Honey,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Get up here on the double. We’ve got our man.” Then speaking to Seyss in German: “You’re very good, Seyss. But I’m afraid that wasn’t a measuring tape you were using, it was your belt. You’re under a—”

Seyss moved before the last word had left his mouth, springing at him as if from a starting block. Judge pulled the trigger, but Seyss was already upon him, hand locked on the gun’s snout, using his leverage to wrestle it from his grip.

The gun went off, once, twice, missing its mark high and wide, the roar splintering the large room. A fist pummeled his gut and Judge doubled over, losing hold of the gun, hearing it clatter to the floor. He threw out his left arm to push Seyss away, bringing his right hand up for his chin, but the German was no longer there. A lightning hand flashed under the punch, fastening onto his tunic. Seyss ducked low, spun a half circle and clipped him over his shoulder. Judge landed on his back with a grunt and, a moment later, Seyss was on top of him, knee pinning him to the ground, grinning wildly. He scooped up the pistol with his right hand and laid the barrel squarely against his forehead.

“What the hell’s going on up there?” shouted Honey. “Major, you okay? Answer back!”

Seyss placed a finger on Judge’s lips and whispered, “Say yes.”

“ Gehen-sie zum Teufel . Go to hell.” “Everything is fine,” called Seyss, his English flawless, the accent if anything too flat. “Stay put and we’ll be down in a second.”

He pressed the gun harder against his forehead and Judge could see he was deciding whether or not to kill him. It would be a rash decision. Seyss needed him to get out of the house. Otherwise, he’d be locked in shoot-out with Honey. Suddenly the pressure abated and Seyss lifted him to his feet. He was very strong for a lithe man.

“Now, Major Judge, you are going to accompany me down the stairs. Be nice and you’ll go home to see your lovely wife in America.”

Seyss pushed Judge down the hall, holding him in check with a ferocious arm lock. Judge considered trying to warn Honey but abandoned the notion. He had to assume that Seyss hadn’t fooled him. It was time to see what that Silver Star was worth.

The two men made a slow descent down the stairs. When they’d reached the second floor landing, Seyss shoved Judge against the wall and clamped a hand over his mouth. Sliding the pistol from his prisoner, he pointed it downward and fired a bullet through the floor. Before Judge could move a muscle, the pistol was back in the ribs. Seyss kept his eyes on the stairs below as the bullet’s report faded. His ruse to draw Honey out failed. Not a sound came from the ground floor. No one appeared.

The two men continued down the stairs.

“So you know for the next time,” Seyss said amicably, “should one of us German bastards resist, the proper procedure is to shoot him.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Judge. “Give me my gun. We’ll go back upstairs and do it over again. I don’t usually make the same mistake twice.”

“I’m sure you don’t, though I must say your uniform is a little light on ribbons. New to the game are you? If I hadn’t heard you speak English, I would have taken you for a German. Or are you? Perhaps a Jew smart enough to have left before the war?”

They descended another step.

“My mother came from Berlin,” he answered. “From Wedding.”

Judge kept his eyes in front of him, measuring where he might tumble to give Honey a clear line of fire, or if he should simply sacrifice himself and jump. It would be easy enough. There was no banister to prevent his fall. If he had any assurance Honey would kill Seyss, he wouldn’t think twice about it.

“Yes, Wedding. Of course. I should have picked up the accent. Home to the working classes. Hotbed of communism.

If you don’t mind my saying, your uniform is a tad natty for a son of the revolution. What were you back on civvy street?”

Another step down.

“An attorney.”

“Hmm,” Seyss intoned, as if impressed. “Does your army normally send attorneys after fugitives, or is that a privilege reserved solely for war criminals?”

Judge hated him the more for having a sense of humor. “Believe it or not, I used to be a policeman. Guess I’m a little rusty.”

“You’ll find no complaint from me.” Seyss moved the snout of the gun to Judge’s jaw and turned his face so he could better see him. “Now that you mention it, you look like a copper. Jaw a little too square, nose a shade too curious. You would’ve done well in the Gestapo. They only use their weapons once their prisoners are in custody.”