The Warrior (33 page)

His new persona put a swagger in his walk, and when he turned the corner and saw a colorful sign swinging over a doorway that had a beer stein painted on it, he patted his pocket, making sure his wallet was inside, and headed in that direction.

 

Another week had come and gone since the bandages had been removed from Richard's face. During that time, he'd taken another step in his plan to change his identity by notifying Helga and Gustav that he'd suffered a serious accident while he'd been gone that had resulted in the need for plastic surgery to repair his face. They'd been horrified by the news of his situation, and expressed their good wishes for his speedy recovery and return. He'd also spent long hours on the phone, dealing with getting a new photo for his passport by offering the same explanation he'd given Helga and Gustav. With his doctor's sworn statement that he had indeed done surgery on Anton Schloss, the powers that be had accepted the reason, and his passport had been updated to reflect his new look.

Yesterday he'd been released from the hospital, and after spending the night in a hotel near the airport, awaiting his flight back to East Germany, he was now sitting at the gate with his new passport, awaiting departure.

It wasn't going to be a comfortable flight, but he had pain pills and the knowledge that he could rest all he liked once he was back home eating Helga's good cooking. He was even starting to get excited about his businesses. There were a couple of small manufacturing places near Bonn that he'd been looking at as possible locations for expansion.

It didn't seem odd to think of himself as Anton Schloss anymore, because the man he saw when he looked in the mirror was certainly not Richard Ponte. He was conditioning himself to be someone new—a he-man with a
straight nose and strong features. A man with a slim waist and big chest. A man known as Anton Schloss.

Finally the announcement he'd been waiting for came over the loudspeaker. They were ready to board his flight. He picked up his bag and then his cane. All the people needing extra time to board were invited to enter first. He moved to the head of the line.

I
t was raining when the cab pulled up to Richard's East German residence. He tossed some euros over the seat, then had started to get out when the door to his home opened abruptly and Gustav came out on the run, carrying an umbrella.

He smiled to himself. Good help really was so hard to find, but when you got it, you really appreciated its worth.

“Thank you,” he said as Gustav extended a hand to help him out.

“Welcome home, Herr Schloss. We were so sorry to hear of your accident but most pleased to learn you have healed quite well. I'm sorry you did not call me to come and get you, and that you took a cab instead.”

“My flights were delayed due to the weather. It would have been impossible to tell you when to pick me up, because I did not know when I would be arriving.”

Gustav nodded, making sympathetic noises, while the cab driver set the luggage, along with a small metal box, on the door stoop, then drove away. With Gustav
holding the large black umbrella over his head, Richard made his way carefully up the walk and then into the house, sniffing appreciatively at the homey smells pervading the foyer.

“Helga must be baking. The house smells wonderful,” he said.

“
Ja
…for you, Herr Schloss. She bakes for you.”

“I will sample some of it later,” Richard said. “For now, bring my bags and help me up to my room. After that long flight, I need to rest.”

Gustav balanced the biggest bag and the metal box under one arm, then took Richard by the elbow and led him to the stairs. When they reached the landing, Richard was winded.

“I'm still not at my best,” he said. “But I soon will be. Just put my things in my room. Helga can unpack for me later. I'm going to nap. If I'm not awake by dinnertime, you may wake me. I shouldn't miss a meal, as I'm trying to regain my strength.”

Gustav nodded, then closed the door behind him as he left, leaving Richard in the quiet of his own elegance and hurried off, no doubt to fill Helga in on the news, Richard thought.

Richard looked around his bedroom with a studied glance, taking note of the fresh flowers, the highly polished wood, the gleaming floors, and trying not to think of his bedroom back in Miami. He'd always enjoyed the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean and the sea breezes that blew through as he sunned out on the deck beyond his bedroom. He didn't know for certain what would happen to everything he owned under the name of Ponte, but he was determined
that Alicia would not live to enjoy what she'd taken away from him.

Then he remembered the small metal box beside his suitcase.

“Ah yes, my ace in the hole,” he muttered as he picked it up, checking to make sure the seal had not been broken.

Satisfied that all was well, he tucked it up high on a shelf in his closet and shoved a pair of extra pillows in front of it. He didn't care how macabre it had been of him to demand all the skin and flesh that had been removed from his body. No one could have imagined the future plans he had for it.

He kicked off his shoes as he walked into the bathroom, then turned on the light before going to stand before the mirror.

He smiled, watching the way his lips curved, then noticing the new lines the smile made on his face. They had put a different arch in his brows. The cheek and chin implants, as well as his new nose, gave his face a Slavic appearance. Coupled with that and the bald head he still maintained, he didn't even know himself. He patted his chest, feeling the outlines of his new physique, then turned sideways, admiring the toned appearance of his body.

He might even give thought to getting himself a new woman. But nothing serious. He didn't intend to marry again—ever. And not because he still held any love for his dead wife. He just didn't want to share his property and wealth with anyone ever again. He didn't know how he was going to manage the feat, but when he died, he intended to take it all with him.

A short while later, he'd freshened up and was
readying for his nap when his cell phone began to ring. He glanced at caller ID and then smiled. Even though no name appeared in the window, he recognized the number.

“Hello.”

“Boss, it's me.”

“Where are you?” Richard asked.

“Austria. I rented a room here, but I can relocate to wherever you need me to be.”

Richard smiled again, as he sat down on the side of the bed. “Isis came through for you, I see.”

Dieter hesitated. He didn't know whether to relay the message she'd given him or not. But Richard could tell by Dieter's silence that he hadn't been completely forthcoming.

“Talk to me,” Richard said.

“She said to tell you that if you ever set foot in Houston again, you're a dead man.”

“That seems fair,” he said shortly. “However, she wouldn't know it if I did.”

“What do you mean?” Dieter asked.

“You will see for yourself when we next meet.”

“And when will that be?” Dieter asked.

“I've been a bit under the weather,” Richard said. “When I feel better, I'll give you a call. How are you fixed for money?”

“I have plenty for now. She was generous with that, as well as my new papers.”

“That reminds me. To whom am I now speaking?”

Dieter grinned. “Lars Vintner, a citizen of the U.S, born and raised in Wisconsin, but with familial ties to Austria.”

“Nice to meet you, Vintner,” Richard said. “And you
may call me Herr Anton Schloss, or continue with ‘boss,' if you so choose.”

Dieter felt like shouting. “This is great, boss. You did it. You've escaped them all. I'm looking forward to living this new life.”

“Yes. Well. I still have a few kinks to iron out of the old one before I'm ready to celebrate,” Richard said, then added, “I'll call when it's time to begin.”

 

Two miserable days had passed since what Alicia privately referred to as “the night of John's angel.” John wasn't exactly ignoring her. He continued to see to her comfort and safety, and patiently answered when spoken to, but he didn't initiate anything. She might as well have been a shadow on the wall. The emotional connection between them was gone. He rarely looked at her, and when he did, his expression was distant, as if he were looking at a stranger. She was devastated by what had happened, but at a loss as how to get back to where they had been.

She'd gone over and over everything he'd told her so many times that she'd made herself crazy. She no longer knew what was real and what wasn't. All she knew was that she'd lost the most important thing she'd ever had: John's love.

She cried herself to sleep every night, and woke up with a pounding headache and swollen eyes. It was obvious what was happening to her. But it was also obvious that John Nightwalker no longer gave a damn.

Her mother's brooch was lying on the table beside her bed. She looked at it a dozen times a day, touching it, feeling the weight of it in her hand, trying to figure
out if it was a copy or the real thing. But the only thing she had for evidence was the message she'd received. Either she believed or she didn't. Just like John's story: she either believed him or not.

She wanted to. God knew how badly she wanted to. But what did that make her if she gave in and gave up? As crazy as John—or a woman in the middle of an eternal cycle of revenge?

Either way, she was screwed.

 

Every day that John kept Alicia at a distance was another day that seemed like dying. He hadn't felt this sad and empty since the day White Fawn and his people had been butchered. He wanted to hate her. He wanted to replace this pain with rage. But she was too deeply embedded in his soul for him to be able to distinguish where he ended and she began. It was the purest sort of irony that the only person to whom he'd revealed the real truth about his life had not only rejected what he'd told her but
him,
as well.

He knew she was suffering, too. He saw her swollen face and red-rimmed eyes each morning at the breakfast table. He felt her gaze on him a hundred times a day, but he was done with trying to make her understand. It was like the old man had told her. Either she believed or she did not.

And so their silent war continued through yet another day.

 

John's cell phone rang as he was getting ready for bed. He answered before he thought to look at caller ID.

“Is this John Nightwalker?”

“Yes.”

“This is Officer Belmont. I worked that wreck you witnessed the other day.”

“Oh. Yes, Officer. How can I help you?”

“I just thought you might like to know that the woman finally regained consciousness this afternoon. They diagnosed her problem as epilepsy. She'd suffered a seizure and passed out. By the time you got to her, the seizure had passed, but she had a serious concussion, as well as some broken ribs and a broken jaw. You saved her life.”

“Glad I could help,” John said. “But it was just a case of being in the right place at the right time.”

“She would have burned to death if you hadn't pulled her out. The family wanted your name and phone number. I think they want to thank you personally, but I told them I'd run it by you first.”

John sighed. “Please tell them I'm very happy she survived and that I was able to help, but there's stuff going on in my life right now that makes it better for all concerned if I maintain a low profile.”

“I thought that might be the case. I knew your name was familiar when I was working the wreck, but it wasn't until I got back to headquarters that I made the connection. I suppose the young woman who was with you is Alicia Ponte, right?”

“Officer Belmont, I would be very grateful if you'd keep all this to yourself. Right now, her life and welfare depend on staying out of the spotlight.”

“Absolutely,” Belmont said. “And would you tell Miss Ponte for me that as an officer of the law, as well as the brother of a marine who is now fighting in Iraq, I'm grateful for what she did. I know it wasn't easy.”

“I'll pass along your message,” John said.

“And I'll pass yours along to the woman's family.”

“So…we're even, right?” John asked.

“Okay.”

“Thanks for calling,” John said.

“Take care.”

John laid the phone back down and started to get undressed, then thought of the message he'd promised to pass on to Alicia. Facing her again was the last thing he wanted, but he had to do it sometime. Better now than later.

He walked across the hall and knocked on her door.

 

Alicia was sitting in the middle of her bed, staring at the television, but deaf to what was on the screen. She'd been crying for so long her eyes were swollen and her nose was running steadily. She shuddered on a sob, then reached across her pillow for another tissue as the knock sounded on her door. At first she thought it was the program, but when it sounded again, she realized it was John.

She hit the mute button on the remote and then blew her nose one more time.

“What do you want?” she yelled.

John was a little taken aback. He'd expected her to answer the door, not yell at him.

“May I come in?” he asked.

Alicia knew what she looked like. The last thing she wanted was for him to see her in this condition.

“No.”

John put a hand in the middle of her door, then leaned his head against his arm and closed his eyes.

Damn. All he seemed to do was make her cry. Her voice was so hoarse she sounded sick. He wanted to
walk away. She'd brought this all on herself. But even though she'd hurt him to the core, he couldn't bear to think of her in the same kind of misery.

“I have something to tell you. It's something you'll want to hear.”

Alicia rolled her eyes, wadded the tissue into a ball and tossed it toward the wastebasket where she'd thrown the others. She missed, as she had several times before. But she didn't care. She rolled off the bed, stomped to the door and yanked it open.

“What?” she demanded, well aware of how rude she was being.

“You've been crying,” he said accusingly, then thought how stupid that sounded. She was obviously aware of her own condition, as well as who had caused it. Him.

“No shit, Sherlock,” she snapped. “So, is that the something you came to tell me? Because if it is, I have news for you. I already knew it.”

She slammed the door in his face.

He bit his lip to keep from shouting back and knocked again.

“What?” she yelled again.

“I wasn't through.”

“Well, I am,” she returned. “I'm through with my father. I'm through with you. In fact, I'm through with men in general. All they ever do is lie to me and hurt me.”