Christopher Reich - The Runner

“Just a studio” meant just that: a large corner room with an armoire and chest of drawers set against one wall, a king size bed against the other, with a couch and a coffee table in between. A mantle of dust an inch thick covered the furniture. Ingrid immediately tore off the bedspread and threw it into the corner. A few steps took her to the closet where she opened a Vuitton steamer trunk and removed a set of clean sheets.

“Don’t just stand there,” she said. “Get on the other side of the bed and give me a hand. It must be after two. I’m exhausted.”

Judge did as he was told and in a few minutes the bed was made. He asked for another sheet and laid it atop the sofa, taking a few lap cushions into the hallway and pounding them until they were rid of dust. A quick check confirmed the absence of running water. Making use of an iron cleaning bucket, he went downstairs and found a spigot in the interior court of the building next door. A sign had been posed above it reading, “For washing only.”

“Thank God, a little water,” said Ingrid, seeing the full bucket.

Judge set it in on the john. “You can’t drink it until it’s boiled.”

“I wouldn’t dare, but I do need to clean up a little. Would you excuse me?”

“Sure.” Judge walked around the apartment, yawning, stretching his arms, trying hard not to think of what had gone on here six years ago. The duvet Ingrid had laid on the bed was embroidered with the Bach family crest. He sat down on the bed to read the Latin motto.

“In peace, strong. In battle, strongest,” Ingrid recited, sitting down next to him. “Charming, isn’t it? Now you know why I kept it hidden.”

“Better than mine.”

“Oh? You have a crest as well?”

Judge dropped his head and laughed, but only for an instant. That was his Ingrid. The lady to his manservant. By now, he knew her well enough to know that her remark carried no condescension, just surprise and genuine interest. Even without a penny in her purse, she would always be an aristocrat.

“Not a crest, no, but at least a motto. ‘ Nunc est torpus ad bibendum — Now is the time to drink’. The old man was Irish. What do you expect?”

Ingrid grinned half-heartedly and when Judge looked closer he saw she was shivering. “You’re cold?”

She shook her head. “I’m scared.”

Judge put his arm around her. He tried to muster his most confident smile, but managed only a slight peaking of the cheeks. Any rousing words would prove hollow encouragement. “Me, too.”

“I wouldn’t know it. You look like you were cut out for this type of thing.”

“Me?” the thought of himself as a hardened soldier made him laugh. He looked at the crusts of dirt blackening his fingernails and cringed. “The only battles I fight are in the court room. It’s a pretty placid affair, a few guys arguing with each other. Sometimes we even raise our voices. When it’s over we go out and have lunch together.”

“I saw how you struck General Carswell. You liked it.”

“No,” Judge retorted, picking out the sliver of derision in her voice. “I didn’t.” But even as he made his denial, his anger faded. She was right. He had liked it.

“I’m sorry,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder. “I’m upset. I miss my son.”

For once, Judge couldn’t think of anything to say, so he remained quiet. Stirred by her presence, he drew her closer. It was a reflex, an instinct. No, he admitted to himself. It was desire, something he’d wanted to do since he’d first seen her; something his predetermined prejudices against the Germanvolk , in general, and the Bachs, in particular, had prevented.

He brushed his nose against her vanilla hair, smelling her, wanting her feminine scent to flush the omnipresent sting of charred wood and raw sewage from his nostrils. A delicate hand inside his shirt caused his breath to catch. Fingers skipped over his ribs, caressing his chest.

Judge tilted his head toward hers, and saw in her eyes the same desire that had gripped him at Jake’s Joint and, he now knew, that had consumed him ever since. He kissed her softly, tasting her lips. She moaned, and pressed herself against him, and for the swiftest of moments, he thought,I’m kissing a German, and I am kissing the enemy, then he felt her mouth open to his and he knew she was simply a young woman who needed to be loved; a soul not so different from his own.

He kissed her long and deep, and she responded, searching hungrily for his tongue, her hands exploring his body, grasping, massaging him. Pent up for so long, his desire throbbed and grew hot inside him. Abruptly, he raised his head from hers, and for a moment they both stared at one another, a look of bemused surprise brightening their faces.

With a finger he traced the curve of her neck and her shoulders. He’d forgotten the silky feel of a woman’s skin and his fingertips sent small currents of electricity dancing along his arm. “We’re like a couple of teenagers.”

She brushed his hair back from his forehead, drawing her hand gently across his cheek. Suddenly, she laughed huskily and pushed him flat onto the bed. “I never did this when I was a teenager.”

“Did what?”

“Patience, Major Judge, and you’ll find out.”

Drawing up her skirt a notch or two, Ingrid guided a perfectly formed leg over him and straddled his chest. Slowly, she unbuttoned her blouse, freeing one arm, then another, from her sleeves. Slipping a hand behind her back, she unclasped her brassiere and dropped it onto his belly. Posture erect, breasts bathed in the waning moonlight, she placed an ivory hand in his lap and began kneading him, moving her palm in slow circles as he lifted his hips to meet her. He guided his finger to her nipple and brushed it gently back and forth until it was erect, and Ingrid quivered with anticipation. His body was suffused with a liquid warmth, an encompassing heat that pulsed in time to his heart. When he ran a finger over her lips, she shuddered noticeably.

“Now,” she said.

Judge lifted her with his hands and guided her onto the bed next to him. For a few seconds, they stared at one another, intimate beyond their time together, each inviting the other into their soul. Eyes open wide, lips trembling with anticipation, Ingrid looked vulnerable and supreme, eager yet frightened.

He moved slowly at first, tenderly. He kissed her shoulder and her neck, seeking diversion from the heat building in his loins. It was she who quickened their rhythm, she who rose to meet his thrusts. She was passionate and uncontrolled, and the volatile combination eclipsed anything he’d ever experienced. Her face grew flushed, her breath low and vibrant. She bit into his lip, fighting to stifle her moans.

“Devlin,” she whispered, “ Halts-du nicht. Halts-du nie .” Judge tucked his face into her neck, aware that his movements were no longer his own. All of him — his hopes and dreams, his fears and worries — was concentrated into a white-hot core at the center of her being. He closed his eyes and, as he let himself go, he realized that his ardor for her extended beyond a physical craving and that Ingrid had rekindled in him the desire to love.

“What will you do?” she asked afterwards.

“I’m going to find him,” Judge said evenly. It didn’t matter that he’d never been to Berlin before, he added for his own benefit, or that he didn’t have so much as a scooter to get around, or that his own police were looking for him.

“Berlin is a big city,” she said. “We walked for three hours to get here and we didn’t even cross a quarter of it. He might be anywhere.”

“If he were hiding, I’d give up. I’d say it was impossible. But he’s not. He’s out and about. He’s got a job to do and he’s figuring out how to do it. Actually, I’m optimistic.”