Back from the Dead (4 page)

That seemed to persuade him. The German froze.

“I’m going to give you another chance. Where’s Colette?”

“Not far from here.”

“Let’s go see how she’s doing.”

“I have to call, tell them we are coming.”

“How many are there?”

“Two.”

“We’re going to surprise them,” Harry said. “And if they’ve done anything to Colette, you’re the first one I’m going to shoot. Believe that if you believe anything. Take off your coat, throw it over here and turn around.” He did and Harry checked the two outside pockets of the jacket, found a parking receipt, and a pair of handcuffs. There was also a piece of notepaper that had an address on Crooks Road in Troy and a phone number. “This where they have Colette?”

In the other pocket he found car keys and a small semiautomatic. He ejected the magazine and put it in his pocket. The German had his back to Harry, looking over his shoulder. “Take off your clothes. I want to see what else you’ve got.” The German stripped down to his briefs and tossed everything on the floor at Harry’s feet. Harry picked up the man’s pants and checked the pockets, found the key to the handcuffs and his wallet. Opened it, name Albin Zeller from Munich on the driver’s license. “You a Nazi, too, Albin?” Harry said.

Zeller, with his back to him, didn’t say anything. He was less threatening now in his underwear, thin legs, pale skin that had never been in the sun.

“Why are you looking for Hess?”

He didn’t respond.

“You break in, say you want to talk, but you don’t say anything.” Hess was a wealthy man and a member of the Christian Social Union, an important political figure in Germany. Harry could understand why there were people who wanted him found. Hess must have told someone his plans. Otherwise how would Zeller have been able to follow his trail to Detroit? Harry threw him the handcuffs. “Put them on.”

Zeller turned, caught them, clamped them on his wrists. “Where’s your car?”

“On the street.”

That wasn’t going to work, walking a handcuffed Nazi in his undies out to the car at gunpoint. “All right, let’s go. We’ll take mine.”

“They are expecting a phone call.”

“Well they’re going to be surprised then, aren’t they?”

“What about my clothes?”

“You’re not going to need them.”

“You drive up to the house they will kill her,” Zeller said. “Then we won’t drive up to the house.”

Harry was parked in the driveway by the side door. It was 5:30 and almost dark. He led Zeller out, popped the trunk, took his eye off the German for a second and Zeller took off, hurdled the neighbor’s fence like a track star and disappeared. Harry started after him and stopped. Went back to the car, closed the trunk and drove to Troy to find Colette.

At 1:27 a.m., Hess saw the Bahamian policeman walk by the door, going outside to smoke. He pulled the IV out of his arm, slid out of bed, crossed the room, the ward quiet, patients asleep. Light from the moon was coming in the window next to his bed, illuminating part of the ward. At the door he glanced to the right and saw the policeman at the end of the hall. He looked the other way: no one was at the nurses’ station. He went back through the room to the window next to his bed, opened it and punched out the screen.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Hess turned and saw Paulette, one of the night nurses, coming toward him across the ward. She must have been in the toilet room.

“Have you lost your mind, man? Get back in da bed.”

She reached him, hands on his arm and shoulder, trying to pull him away from the window. “Come on now, we don’t want no trouble.”

Hess pivoted and went for her throat, taking the 110-pound woman down on the hard tile floor. She thrashed and fought, legs kicking, fingers trying to scratch his face. He had never strangled anyone. It required more effort than he realized. He kept his weight on her and the pressure on her neck and gradually she stopped fighting, eyes bulging, and went limp. Hess was breathing hard, exhausted from the effort, sweated through the hospital gown. He glanced toward the doorway, heard footsteps coming along the hall, picked up Paulette, put her in his bed and covered her with the sheet and blanket.

He brought a chair over, stood on it and slid his feet through the window, sitting on the sill, turned on his stomach and lowered his legs until his feet touched the ground. Barefoot and naked under the gown, Hess crossed the street, feeling weak, and moved past dark storefronts in downtown Freeport. He saw two figures approach, slim Negros in white shirts, skin blending with the darkness.

“What we have here?” the first one said.

“We take your money,” the second one said, waving a knife at him theatrically.

Hess looked at them and smiled.

“Man what you wearing?”

“Look like he escape from the hospital,” the second one said.

Hess picked up the front of his hospital gown, flashed them and laughed.

“Keep away from him,” the first one said, stepping back. “Crazy old bugger, man’s a mental case.”

They moved past him down the street, Hess watching until they disappeared. He walked along the storefronts, stopping in front of Morley’s, a men’s store, bright-colored island attire on headless manikins in the window. He continued walking to the end of the streets, went right and right again, moving down an alley behind the stores.

Morley’s had a solid rear door with deadbolts top and bottom. There was a window behind closed shutters. He saw headlights coming toward him, ducked behind a big blue trash bin, watching as a police car crept by, its spotlight sweeping across the buildings.

When the police car was out of sight Hess went back to Morley’s and dug his fingers into the shutter slats, pulling the sides open. The window was latched, so he broke a center pane in the upper half with his elbow. The glass cracked and shattered. Hess reached in, turned the clasp, slid up the bottom half of the window and climbed in the room. Then he pulled the shutters closed and locked the window.

It was a tailor shop, three sewing machines on worktables, bolts of cloth stacked on deep shelves. He walked into the store and looked around, checking the racks of trousers and jackets, and shirts folded and stacked on wooden shelves. He tried on a pair of white-cuffed trousers that bunched at his feet. He pulled the waist up higher on his stomach and they fit better, still too long but acceptable. Hess slipped a white short-sleeved sport shirt over his head and tucked it into the trousers. He chose a black leather belt from the belt rack, size thirty-eight. And a light blue sport jacket, size forty-four. The collar needed work and the sleeves were half an inch too long. Hess liked to show a little linen, although with short sleeves what did it matter? He posed in front of a full-length mirror, decided the white trousers were too much and swapped them for a pair of light gray trousers that were cut the same way. He took off the blue jacket and tried on a yellow one, decided it was too loud and went back to blue. He selected black espadrilles for stylish comfort, and a tan Bailey straw with a black band. The transformation was remarkable, Hess changing from ward patient to prosperous island gentleman.

He opened the cash register behind the counter and took 150 Bahamian dollars. The manager’s office had a couch. He removed the hat and jacket, lay down, exhausted, and closed his eyes, listening to the sound of police sirens in the distance.

In the morning he felt better. He scanned the street from the front window, unlocked the front door, walked out of the shop and down the street, hailed a passing taxi, and rode to Lucaya.

Hess sat at an outdoor cafe overlooking the marina, sipping coffee, watching clouds drift in over the glistening turquoise water that turned a darker shade of blue further out. He watched Bahamian police in their distinctive uniforms patrolling around the docks, checking boats, talking to owners. When the police were gone he paid his check and walked down to the marina. There were half a dozen yachts with Florida registry. Two, he noticed, were from Palm Beach. He was admiring a big Hatteras from Fort Lauderdale named
Knotty Buoy
when a dark-haired guy in sunglasses walked out on the aft deck with a flute of champagne in his hand.

“Just looking at your boat,” Hess said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“You a sailor?”

“Once a sailor always a sailor,” Hess said, going back to his southern accent. “My last one was a ’68 Trojan.”

The Hatteras owner smiled. “Last of the wooden boats. Nothing prettier than that polished teakwood deck and hull. All teak inside too. You have the thirty-eight or the forty-two?”

“Forty-two. Twin diesels cranking out six hundred forty horsepower.”

“Do twenty-four knots I’ll bet. Still own her?”

“Sold it when I moved to Atlanta,” Hess said, total fabrication.

“Why the hell’d you do that?”

“It’s a long boring story,” Hess said.

“Come aboard. I’ll show you around.”

Hess went over the transom and climbed down the steps to the aft deck.

The man came toward him, arm outstretched. “How you doing? Tony Brank at your service.”

Brank was short and muscular, shirt unbuttoned to his navel, gold chain around his neck, longhair pulled back in a ponytail. Forty-five. “Emile Landau,” Hess said, shaking his hand. “Brank. That’s an unusual name. What nationality are you?” Wondering if he was a Jew.

“Eye-talian. Brancaleone originally,” he said, pronouncing it with Italian flair. “I needed something shorter, snappier.”

Hess could hear police sirens. “What’s going on?”

“Some crazy bastard killed a nurse in the hospital last night. Police are looking for him. Searching every boat. You’re not the guy, are you?” Brank frowned, and then broke into a grin. “Just fucking with you, partner. Come on in.”

Hess followed him into the cabin and through a salon that had a sectional couch on one side facing a built-in television. The couch was covered in zebra-skin fabric, the lampshades in leopard. The ersatz Serengeti decor puzzled him. At the opposite end of the salon was the pilot station, with a set of controls to steer the boat, compass, Loran. Brank led him down a couple of steps to the galley, the room done in teak with Formica countertops. He could see the neck of a champagne bottle sticking out of a silver ice bucket.

“Champagne?” Tony Brank said. “It’s Taittinger’s.”

“How can I refuse?” Hess said, smiling.

Brank opened a cupboard door, reached in and brought out a flute, filled it halfway with champagne, bubbles rising to the rim of the glass, and handed it to him. He poured more in his own flute, held it up and said, “To salty dogs.”

Hess toasted him and sipped the champagne, tasting the fruity chardonnay grapes.

“What do you do, Emile?”

“I’m a builder,” Hess said. “Homes. Office buildings. Whatever you need built. What about you?”

“Erotic films,” Brank said, tracing the comb lines in his hair with his fingertips. “See
Twat’s Up, Doc?

“No, but it sounds familiar,” Hess said, no idea what he was talking about.

“Christ, I hope so. Longest-running adult film of all time. Twelve million in domestic grosses, twenty worldwide. Orientals ate it up. No pun intended. Bought this boat with the proceeds.”

A blonde in a nightgown walked into the galley behind Brank, yawning and rubbing her eyes. “Tony, will you keep it down? I’m trying to get some fucking sleep.” She paused, fixing puffy eyes on the Taittinger bottle. “You’re not drinking champagne, are you? What the hell time is it?”

“Babe, say hello to Emile Landau.”

She glanced at Hess and looked away. “I’m not saying hi to anyone the way I look.” She turned and walked out of the room, hips swaying, the looks and natural glamour of an actress or model.

“Anything with tits or batteries,” Brank said, “eventually’s going to give you trouble. My wife, Denise. Recognize her?”

Hess shrugged.

Brank grinned. “Star of
Deep Six.”
He drank some champagne. “Helluva picture.” He scratched the hair on his chest like a caveman. “She was an auto-parts model posing in a two-piece, holding a suspended crankshaft like a big steel dick when I met her. Discovered her, really. High-school dropout from Bay City, Michigan with a body that wouldn’t quit. I’m looking at her bazooms and I go, ‘Kiddo, I’m going to make you a star.’ She looks at me, giggles and goes, ‘Okay.’ Rest is history.” Brank grinned thinking about it, finished his champagne, belched and went up the steps to the salon. Stopped, looked back and said, “I want to show you something.”

Hess followed him outside and up a wide, slightly curved aluminum ladder with white plastic steps to the flying bridge, trying to hold the champagne glass without dropping it. There was a white plastic chair bolted to the deck behind a sleek control panel, steering wheel and throttles, windscreen that wrapped around the front, canvas Bimini top pulled taut above them. Behind them there was a dinghy on the overhang of the aft deck.

“Got twin Detroit diesels pooling seven hundred fifty horses. Had them tweaked to do twenty-six knots.”

“A boat this big? I’d have to see it to believe it,” Hess said, challenging him.

Brank smiled now. “Oh, I get it. You’re from Missouri, huh? Okay,” he said, starting the engines. “Want to see for yourself, huh?”

Hess could hear the rumble of the exhaust pipes stirring up the water.

“Think you can release the dock lines?”

From the captain’s chair on the flying bridge Brank steered the Hatteras, zigzagging through the marina, Hess sitting next to him on a built-in bench made of fiberglass, sipping champagne. Just past the seawall Brank gunned the throttle and they took off into open sea, picking up speed, hull rising, slicing through whitecaps, cruising in deep water within a few minutes, flat blue ocean stretching to the horizon.

Brank, hands on the steering wheel, said, “Check this out.” Hess got to his feet and stood behind Brank, glancing at the speedometer. They were flying through the water at twenty-six knots.

“What I tell you?” Brank said, grinning.

They cruised until the land behind them had disappeared, Brank glancing at him, a bemused look on his face. “What do you think?” Yelling over the sound of the wind.

“What’s that?” Hess said, pointing at the horizon.

“An island.”

“Which one is it?”

“No idea. There are like seven hundred of them. I was going to pull over for a while, maybe take a swim. I’ve got suits, you want to join me.”

Hess said, “I have to go below for a minute.”

“Head’s on the other side of the galley, down the steps on the left,” Brank said. “You’re not getting seasick on me, are you?” Hess shook his head, although he did feel queasy, still not himself.

“See Denise, tell her to make us some lunch.”

Hess saw the ship-to-shore radio on the counter next to the cabin controls. He went down the steps into the galley, opening drawers and cabinets, found a flare gun, a Buck knife, a Smith & Wesson revolver. Broke the gun open, saw it was loaded, and put it back.

“What you looking for?” Denise said, walking in the room behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder at her in a bright orange bikini, blonde shoulder-length hair combed straight and tucked behind her ears, face looking flawless under a fresh layer of makeup. He stared at her heavy breasts bursting out of the small bikini top.

“A Band-Aid,” Hess said, thinking of an excuse. He closed the drawer.

“Over here.” She came up next to him, opened a cabinet door and took out a box. “You have a boo-boo? Let’s see.” Earlier, Hess had nicked his index finger on the stairs, climbing to the flying bridge. There was a small mark where the skin had been cut. He showed it to her.

“That’s it? You big baby.” She opened the box, took out a Band-Aid, removed the wrapper and rolled it around his finger. “How’s that? Big baby feel better?” she said. “Sorry about earlier. I was tired and crabby as if you couldn’t tell. I’m Denise.”