Butcher

“Yes. You heard of him?'

“He had a nickname, did he not?” Kamen spoke to her softly in the German tongue she knew best. “The Butcher of Lebensborn?'

“Yes,” she hissed in a razor-edged voice. “The Boy Butcher.'

“You're certain it's Shtolz you saw?'

“I wouldn't forget his smiling devil's mask.'

“Where is he?'

“He's here in Missouri.” Aaron Kamen underlined her words as he printed them and chided himself for not being more thorough. He should have pulled it out of her then, but it had seemed so unlikely. “I'm in the southeast part of Missouri. A little country town called Bayou City, do you know it?'

“No. Where is it located?'

“Between St. Louis, Missouri, and Memphis, Tennessee. I don't know exactly how far but—'

“That's all right. I have maps. Listen, your name is—what?'

“Alma Purdy. I didn't know who to call so I called the police. I could tell they didn't believe me.'

“You phoned the police in Bayou City?'

“They weren't going to do anything. I decided to call you,” she said, exhaling deeply into the mouthpiece of the phone.

Everything about the call seemed genuine but one had to be on guard. Crackpots occasionally called and some could be quite cunning. One in particular, a man from a morning radio program in California, had pretended to have found a Nazi in hiding and had made a fool of Kamen, playing a recording of their conversation on the air as a prank. A less serious man would have found it actionable, but Aaron had done nothing.

He felt sure this was a legitimate call. Next was the question of its authenticity with respect to the sighting. Survivors of the camps saw their share of ghosts, so to speak. The voice on the other end of the line sounded like a woman in control of her faculties, but ... who knew?

“Precisely what did you say to the police?'

“This man named Pritchett took all the information, who I was, where I lived. He wanted to know about me, as if I might have done something, but he asked nothing about Shtolz. I knew he would not act, so I found the clipping, the one with the story about a Nazi hunter, and I called.'

“You must be very, very sure this is the same man. The people who investigate such things are extremely busy and overworked and unless you're positive, please do not pursue it until you are one hundred percent sure.'

“I'm sure. This man killed my baby. He sawed the top of my child's ... “ It was as if the connection had been broken. Nothing. Then there was a racking noise like a cough and her voice returned to its former monotone. “Do you think I would not know the Boy Butcher to see him in front of me?'

“Yes. All right. Please, take it easy now. I will help you and we shall proceed. I'm going to give you the number of an organization that deals with these matters. I will phone them first, myself, and have them contact you. Do nothing further until you've been called. Understand?'

“It is his turn to squirm now.'

“Did you understand what I said? You must not make any further contacts as it could jeopardize the situation, perhaps even put yourself in danger or allow the man you've sighted to be warned.'

“I understand. I will do nothing more.” There was another line but it was garbled, and he stopped the tape, rewound it for a second, and played it back. It sounded as if she'd said, “I'm sending you something—” but he couldn't make the words out. He heard himself testing her.

“I have a small photo of Shtolz from the war years. There is something that makes his appearance unique. Do you recall what it is?'

“If you mean the Tear of Satan, which is what we called it, the ugly, red mark on his face? No. I didn't notice it. He looks different. Much older of course, but the eyes in that face are the same. I don't remember the birthmark. Maybe it faded. Or—he's a doctor—he might have had it changed.'

“Yes.'

“But I swear it's Shtolz. The eyes. That mouth like a curveh.” A whore's mouth.

He rewound the tape again to the place he'd warned her to do nothing further, listening with the volume up as high as it would go.

“I understand. I will do nothing more,” the voice said. “I'm sending you something.'

What? What could she be sending, this woman who recognized old Nazis, how could she send him anything? She'd neglected to ask his mailing address, and he hadn't thought to provide it.

25

1-70, east of Columbia

The drive was longer than Aaron Kamen had anticipated. How could two hundred fifty-some miles on an interstate be such a drive? It felt as if he'd done four hundred fifty miles on a back road. His eyes ached from the glare. The excursion had left him physically tired. Like an old man already, he thought, giving himself a smile.

It was bright, and the Missouri sky was a hard, perfect blue. The sun was so painful he pulled a visor down and thought how quickly it all went by with the passing years. A week now was like a heartbeat. He tried to think how long it had been since the Purdy woman had broken contact with him. He'd become very concerned.

A forty-five minute construction jam helped him decide he'd had enough and he decided to stop at the first motel he saw and spend the night on the outskirts of St. Louis, then drive on to Bayou City in the morning.

Ice was still in the fields, oddly, giving the bright, flat landscape the look of an endless skating rink broken only by occasional tree lines. The countryside and measured pace gave off a sense of reassurance, triggering old childhood recollections that came back to him as he drove.

Heading south in search of Alma Purdy—and one of the rats, one of the big boys, still living free down in the Misssouri Bootheel.

26

Bayou City

The small-town cop genially escorted him from the building, shaking his head. “We've got a bunch of Pritchetts around town. I never thought about her calling the sheriff. Come on, might as well ride with me, Mr. Kamen,” he said, as they stopped beside the first police car.

“Okay.” Aaron Kamen got in the front seat. The car was like the building inside, spotlessly clean and shiny. Kamen was tuned to the man's vibes and the aura was professional and smart. The cop spoke good ol’ boy dialect, which is to say he talked with a Missouri twang, but Jimmie Randall was no backwoods cracker. Kamen sensed intelligence and competency, and that acted to reassure him. Without needing to ask he knew this small-town police chief had checked him out thoroughly; it was unspoken in the way he was being treated. There was no hint of condescension in tone or language.

The chief had said Alma Purdy was probably off visiting kinfolk, but there'd been a file folder in a basket on his desk and Kamen had noticed he'd picked it up and brought it with him. It lay on the seat between them and he knew police never gave a civilian everything they knew, regardless of his or her credentials.

“Do you think it's possible Mrs. Purdy might have told the sheriff about the individual she thought she'd seen?'

“The Nazi from the war, you mean?'

“Right.” So there'd at least been some investigation of the matter.

“We'll sure regard it as a possibility. Let's check the residence and see what we can shake loose there first, and then maybe we'll go talk to the sheriff. You know these older folks.” He shook his head. “You have to see what kinda’ mood a person might have been in the last time somebody saw them. You get to be that age and you also have to take into consideration senility. Alzheimer's.” The words came easily to him.