He got up and put his hands on his hips. He wore a narrow tooled black belt with a gold spear buckle. Hanging from the left side of his belt was a black leather sheath that dangled like an off-center codpiece. He slid something out of it. A hunting knife with a black haft and gold crosspiece. Wide, tapering, foot-long blade. Big enough for butchering large game. Outdoorsman’s knife…
He turned it, examined the blade, then lowered it and held it parallel to his right leg. Then he came from around the desk with remarkable speed and stood in front of me.
Smiling was as easy as chewing ground glass. “Got to play the few cards I’ve got, D.F.”
His pink eyebrows arched. “You think you have
“I know I do. The only reason you brought me here is because I have something you want- information. You need to find out how much I know, who I’ve talked to. About Bear Lodge. Wannsee Two.”
“Three,” said Latch.
A silencing look from Ahlward.
I said, “We’re talking damage control, D.F. You worked on Milo and he didn’t tell you much. Maybe he just didn’t know, or maybe he was tougher than you thought. In either event, you figure I’ll be a softer touch. And maybe I will- but not if you’re going to kill him anyway.”
“You and he have something going, do you?”
“It’s called friendship.”
“Right.” He smiled, lifted his right arm, and brought the knife up to my chin. And under.
“It’s your kind of decadence that brings a society down,” he said. “Softness. Putting it and taking it up the ass.” Probing with the knife.
“All soft,” he whispered. “Every inch of you.” A tiny flick of his wrist and the blade came away red-tipped and wet. He turned again, holding it so that it caught the light- and stared at the candy-apple glint.
No pain for a moment, then a throbbing pang just above my Adam’s apple. Wet heat. Like a wasp sting.
“This is you- this is all you are.” Blood-entranced. I wondered how many animals he’d tortured as a kid. How many people…
I said, “What can I do, D.F.? Sure, you’ve got most of the cards. But I’ve still got to use what I have. Survival. Just like you said.”
His blunt face was motionless. Then amused once more.
Then something else, dark and empty.
He raised the knife high, stabbed down hard.
I stumbled back, away from the slashing blade, anticipating agony. But less afraid than a moment before. Less afraid than I imagined I’d be- nerves deadened, anesthetized. The same kind of anesthesia they say overtakes gazelles just before the hyenas rip them apart.
I was on the floor, curled, head tucked, trying to be tiny.
But still alive. He’d stabbed air. From the look on his face I knew it had been intentional.
He began laughing.
Latch laughed too. The Gestaposcouts joined in.
A regular black-shirt gigglefest.
Through the gaiety, Ahlward’s voice, soft and boyish: “Get up.”
The laughter died.
He nudged my butt with his boot tip. Shiny black cowhide; no lizard for him. Gold chain dangling from instep to ankle.
Deprived of arm-balance, it took me a while to get to my feet. I didn’t want to see his face. Concentrated on his clothes. The battle ribbons looked phony. Homemade…
“Yes,” he was saying. “We’ll keep the faggot here, for efficiency’s sake. I’ll want both of you together anyway. The grand climax.” Smile. Frown. To the junior SS: “Dump it there.”
He crooked a thumb at the couch. Latch gave an uneasy look.
The Gestaposcouts dragged Milo over and dropped him next to Latch. The big bruised body landed on its belly, head on the armrest of the couch, mouth gaping, cabbage-arms flaccid, grubby feet brushing against Latch’s slacks. Latch wrinkled his nose and scooted to the far end. The scouts waited at attention until Ahlward nodded.
Then they were gone and the door closed behind them.
Milo groaned, rolled his head, stretched, and was touching Latch again. Latch looked as if he’d been ordered to drink a cup of spit. He shoved Milo’s foot away, wiped his hands on the arm of the couch, and squeezed himself farther into the corner. “Don’t you think we should tie him?”
Ahlward’s heavy jaw tightened and the hand holding the knife blanched. “Why’s that?”
“Just in ca-”
“Do you feel he’s a threat to you?”
Latch pushed his glasses up his nose. “No, not at all. I just wanted to be-”
“If there’s no threat, then there’s no need to worry, is there?” said Ahlward. “Let’s keep things logical. And as for this one”- he put the knife in its sheath and used his right hand to take hold of my nose-“he’s not going to be any problem, is he?” Finger pressure, cutting off my air. “He’s white-collar all the way.”
He gave Latch an amused look. “The talking class, right, Gordon?”
Latch gave a weak smile. “Absolutely.”
Led by the nose, I was pushed down in one of the folding chairs.
Ahlward said, “Wet and gray. All over your shirt. Maybe
I said, “Better give your knife a thorough cleaning afterward, D.F. Keep yourself healthy for the revolution.”
He went back behind the desk, sat, picked up the black gun, and used a fingernail to scrape something off its barrel.
“Start,” he said.
34
I pushed through my fear of him. Concentrated on the tacky ribbons. The costumes, the banner, the paramilitary bullshit.
D.F.
Play to his ego.
I said, “Well, one thing I’ve figured out is your previous identity. Dayton Auhagen. Darryl Ahlward. Which one’s real?”
“When you ask questions,” he said, “my mind wanders.”
“Okay, let’s go back to fashion, then. Your taste in clothes a few years ago: buckskins. Long hair, a beard too. Perfect image for roaming the wilderness. For surviving in places like the forests of southern Idaho. Surrounding Bear Lodge. You trapped, hunted, lived off the land. Using all those survivalist skills you figured would come in handy when the brown stuff hit the Armageddon fan. Nifty stuff, self-reliance. Where’d you learn it from?”
Latch said, “It’s in the blood,” like a child reciting a lesson.
Ahlward flashed him another sharp look. But it lacked energy.
He liked the attention. All those years of charade. Executive assistant. Waiting to be center stage.
I said. “In the blood, huh? That mean you’re a second-generation storm trooper? Got roots in the Fatherland, D.F.?”
I expected him to brush that off, but he gave a slow measured headshake. “I’m all-American. More American than you or that soft, sorry piece of shit over there could ever conceive.”
“All-American,” I said. “Ah. Was your father in the Bund itself, or one of the splinter groups?”
The amber eyes opened a bit. “You know about the Bund?”
“Just what I’ve read.”
