touch. The closest building was on a hill over 1700 yards to the east. Almost a mile.
'Thank you for bringing the picture.' Engelond’s voice held no gratitude.
Simon had, moments ago, knocked on the door; limped in with the cane in one hand, the wrapped painting in the other.
'Not a problem. Consider it part of the service.' For some inexplicable reason, Simon found himself completely at peace, even with the knowledge of what lay ahead.
Simon was seated on a white couch facing the sliding glass doors. His cane rested on his right; next to his leg.
Engelond was obviously distracted. 'May I?' he asked, pointing the painting.
'Of course.'
Engelond stood, walked over and unwrapped the painting. He lifted it; strolled to the easel and set it up. For the next ten minutes the only thing that he did was to look upon Van Gogh's Mountains at Saint-Remy. Not a word was spoken. The thought never crossed Engelond's mind that the painting before him was anything but the original.
Finally, determined by some internal mechanism, Engelond went to the bar. He reached behind and pulled out a. 38 caliber Smith amp; Wesson Special handgun. Calmly, he walked behind Simon; knelt down on one knee; raised the gun next to Simon's head and pointed it at the glass sliding door.
Engelond cocked the gun and fired it at the patio door, shattering the glass. Then he gently placed the gun on the coffee table directly in front of Simon.
Engelond returned to the bar. He reached behind and retrieved a Glock 17; walked back to the couch and sat down facing Simon. He placed the Glock down on the table.
'Herr Jones, I apologize in advance for what I'm about to do. It is the logical conclusion to our little affair. Surely you can understand. I'm certain that if our positions were reversed that you would do the same.'
'Well, Karl, when you put it that way, I'm sure that you can appreciate what it is that I have to do.'
Karl Terenz Engelond, Sr. let out a deep, throaty, hearty laugh. 'And exactly what is it that you have in mind Simon, since we're being so informal. For instance, I know that you can't touch that gun.'
'Let's be honest, here, Karl. It belittles us, men with our accomplishments to tell lies. You plan on killing me, not to tie up loose ends, but because you possess some pathological, practically genetic hatred of my people.'
'Quite correct, Simon. That is an honest assessment of the situation.'
'Karl, you're not in a terrible rush here, are you. I mean, I do have time for one more question.'
'Certainly. What type of host would I be? Go ahead. Ask your question.'
'You don't believe that this charade is going to fool anyone, do you? What's the scenario? I pulled this. 38 on you; take a shot; miss; hit the glass door and then you shoot me in self defense. You've got to be kidding.'
'Quite serious, actually. Enough talk.' Engelond reached for the Glock.
From the outside came a small explosion, a rifle shot followed by a scream. For a split second, Engelond turned his head to the right; looking for the source of the scream.
The Remington Rifle Cane was originally manufactured in 1858. This particular cane, Simon's, was made in 1872.
Simon lifted his cane and rested the shaft in his left hand…
It weighed a mere 24 ounces; less than 2,000 were ever made.
Simon took aim…
Within the barrel was a. 32 rim fire cartridge.
Engelond turned back; his eyes widened and said, 'Not like this.'
Simon pushed the trigger button…
The projectile traveled at 945 feet per second.
The bullet penetrated Engelond's chest bone and ruptured his heart.
Simon stood and looked down into Engelond's eyes. 'You shouldn't have threatened my son.'
Engelond was barely able to whisper. 'You're afraid of guns.'
'Don't believe everything you read.'
Simon Jones walked outside. Moses Aronson was waiting in the front seat of the Mercedes.
'Who was it?'
'Keller. He was waiting to kill you if the Nazi fucked up.'
'Any problem with the shot?'
'Are you kidding, laddie. Less than a mile, piece of cake. Engelond?'
'Very disappointed.'
We set up a meet
The phone rang again.
Mr. Roboto: 'Perhaps… you didn't… understand Mr. Picker. You give… us the painting… or your girlfriend… dies.'
'Fuck you.' I hung up.
Nathan and TJ were staring at me. 'They've kidnapped Kelly.'
Their eyes got even wider. TJ's voice was more than anxious. 'Pick, what are you, out of your fucking mind. You hung up on those dudes. Man, what are you thinking?'
Nathan is a little more composed. 'What's going through your mind?'
'Simple. These guys are going to kill us anyway. The strategic thing here is to throw them off balance. As long as we have the painting we're safe. That includes Kelly. They'll call back.'
I walked outside and downhill towards my place. Uncle Moe falls into step with me. I look over and tell him, 'I want you to go and protect Kelly.'
'Son, your Mamai asked me to watch over you. Your dear departed father asked me to look over Connor. I'm afraid, laddie, that is the extent of my charge. You well know by now that there be limits on what I can do.'
I'm beside myself. For the first time since this whole affair began I can feel myself losing it. The thought of Kelly getting hurt, or worse, has me at my wit’s end. I have never, ever talked back to my Uncle, let alone lose my temper with him. This was the first time. 'Uncle Moe,' I'm practically screaming, 'my mother gave you to me, so to speak. I am giving you to Kelly. I know that there are limits to your abilities, but I want you to do everything possible to protect that girl. Now! Do I make myself clear?'
That big bear head sinks into his chest. He stops walking and closes his eyes. Ten, fifteen and then thirty seconds pass. Finally, he places his paw on my shoulder and looks directly at me. I shouldn't be able to feel that, should I? 'Aye, son.' And just like that Uncle Moe is gone.
I reach into the back of the Morgan and retrieve the painting. Walk back up to the main house and pass it to Nate.
'This is the prototype for Vermeer's 'Mother and Child'. It's good, good enough to pass an initial inspection. Not good enough for intense scrutiny. It will do just fine for what we need. You'll take care of the details.'
'No problem. It will be ready in a few hours. I’ll call you as soon as it’s done.'
The phone rings again. 'Private Number'. 'Mr. Picker… You will…'
'Put her on the phone.'
Maybe twenty or thirty seconds pass. 'Picker, I'm okay. I haven't been hurt, darling. I've been doing some thinking…'
Mechanical voice grabbed the phone.
'As I was saying… You will meet us… at a location… which we designate…No cops…
'Look, I don't give a shit about the painting. But, I will tell you this, harm one hair on that girl's head and I will personally put a bullet in your brain Mr. Gambelli.'
A very long pause. No robot voice this time: 'I will call you with instructions first thing in the morning Mr. Picker. Good-day.'
'Do you think that was a good idea, you know, using his name like that?' Nathan giving the queer eye.
'Like I said, I want to keep them off balance.'
