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B e positive, stay focused. In football, it was the only way to change momentum…

Was that true? A lot of stuff coaches said was crap, although Bern would only share that information with fellow athletes. It was not the sort of thing a man purchasing a Cadillac or a Florida condo wanted to hear.

Make a game plan, then follow it: That’s why Bern had been on Sanibel every free evening for the last week, getting to know the area. Which was convenient, in a way. Killing two birds with one stone because the beautiful yacht his idiot nephew had lost, the Viking, was tied up at a dock less than two miles away, near Sanibel Lighthouse.

Bern had his own set of keys to the Viking, having taken them from Augie’s condo. It’d been no problem at all getting aboard the boat, either, especially with the island almost empty.

Bern had boarded the Viking, but only for a few minutes, just to start the engines, make sure everything was working, and to transfer three suitcases he had packed before leaving Indian Harbor.

He’d carried the suitcases down to the dock, stepped aboard like he owned the place. No one around to say a word.

He had to do it because of another surprise: Tonight, they’d closed the bridge to the mainland at ten-thirty, due to the storm. Not midnight, as the previous week. Bern had discovered this after almost being spotted by bicycle guy earlier when parked, lights out, in the woman’s driveway.

Not good news.

The bridge being closed was an extremely shitty surprise because it meant there was only one way off the island—by boat—unless Bern wanted to wait around in Moe’s pickup truck until morning.

No, thanks.

Bern would be taking the Viking tonight, even though he hadn’t planned to do it until later in the week.

What he had planned to do was grab the loan documents and Mildred Engle tonight, drive her to Indian Harbor, have some fun, then tuck the lady into a fifty-gallon drum that was already waiting.

By midnight tonight, he wanted to be halfway to Miami. The beginning of a four- or five-day road trip that included a visit to a man who specialized in fake IDs and passports. Also visits to a couple of banks. He’d cleaned out the marina’s safe, and had twelve thousand dollars cash on him, which he wanted to change into traveler’s checks. Isn’t that what they used in foreign countries?

Friday or Saturday night, when the weather was better, that’s when he’d planned to return to Sanibel and take the boat. Good-bye, Florida, which had been like a curse to him. Hello, new life.

But that wasn’t the way things were shaking out.

Bern would have to leave tonight—crappy weather for boating. Which worried him. Big storm, lots of wind… but the bay was amazingly calm when he went to take a look. Big moon, too, with clouds streaming by. And the boat was close to the woman’s house.

Maybe his luck was changing.

T his Monday morning had started in an unusually positive way. Jason had left a phone message saying the promissory notes had finally arrived on Sanibel. Ms. Engle was ready and waiting.

Well, Bern was waiting, too, ready to introduce himself to the old woman with the beautiful face. He’d been looking forward to it a bunch since the night he’d watched her strip naked. The glamorous photo, which he had crumpled, was now taped to his bedroom mirror. From a distance, the woman was as beautiful as before.

A new detail Bern noticed: The woman’s eyes followed him around the room no matter where he went.

That afternoon, though, Moe came to visit, the hick from South Lick, and instantly, Bern’s life began to change from good to bad, then from bad to worse.

So what else was new?

When Moe arrived, Bern was in the marina office, using the Internet, following steps as listed in the document How to Change Your Identity and Disappear Forever, planning his escape, just in case the Hoosier turned out to be the spineless bohunk Bern feared.

Which, of course, he was.

Identity theft was the key to disappearing. Find information on a person who had died recently. Ideally, someone with many assets but few relatives. Use their Social Security number to obtain a copy of their birth certificate, to get a new passport, and take control of whatever assets they had.

His grandfather had done it successfully in 1944. Why couldn’t Bern?

In truth, it had been easier for the old man—the old man being, essentially, a ruthless Nazi murderer, Bern had decided.

At Bern’s elbow, near the computer, was his grandfather’s passport. His real passport. A German passport, green, with a Nazi eagle embossed on the front cover, many, many swastika stamps but no big red J inside.

He had gone through the passport enough to have the information memorized: Issued 1938, Berlin, his grandfather’s precise signature legible beneath the photo: Heinrich Bernard Goddard.

Heinrich Goddard. Jesus, the perfect name for a proctologist.

Vicious son of a bitch. His whole life was a lie.

Bernard?

Fuck you, old man.

Even at nineteen, his grandfather’s piggish face and brutal eyes were unmistakable. He looked nothing at all like the blond guy whose identity he had swiped, along with the guy’s assets—a box full of real estate deeds— before catching a boat to Colombia, then Brazil, then home to Germany.

Bern knew this because, along with the passport, he had also taken several letters, Jason Goddard writing to Augie. Confidential, of course. Typically, you had to skip to the last pages to avoid Jason’s bullshit.

An example: “…our great-grandfather did what was necessary to survive in tough political times. He was a brilliant medical student, personal assistant to Dr. Carl Clauberg, world authority on genetics. However, he knew ridiculous charges awaited after the war, so he fled to Florida, where a German agent provided assistance in return for…”

In return for a couple of bars of gold bullion, that’s what.

Bern found that tidbit in yet another personal note to Augie—Augie and Jason being the only two Wisconsinites named in the late Heinrich Goddard’s primary will, clearly favoring his firstborn son in Germany, and the son’s family.

The old man had stolen a bunch of it. Gold bullion.

“…he liberated a significant amount while U.S. troops advanced.”

What else could that mean? Sometimes, you had to read between the lines.

Another for instance: “…tragically, the agent who transported grandfather out of Florida waters was piloting a U.S. vessel, enemy of the Reich, so was fired upon and sunk, as duty required…

“…grandfather used Frederick Roth’s passport to ensure his own freedom, which he viewed as tribute to Mr. Roth’s bravery. He continued to use the name out of respect…”

Translation: The old man stole the blond guy’s identity, stole his real estate deeds, then made sure the guy was dead.

Which was the smart thing to do, Bern had to admit. He had been reading a lot about identity theft lately and it was the best way.

But what about the gold bullion? Had the old man paid the German agent first? Maybe that’s why the nautical map was in the briefcase. Bern knew where the wreck was. If he got the Viking back, got this other bullshit settled, and there was a nice calm day…?

Bern was wondering about the gold when the office door opened, and in walked Moe, ducking his head into his cowboy hat, already sweating on this storm-cool Monday afternoon. Nervous. A little drunk, too.

Hmm-m-m-m. Suspicious.

Right away, Moe started talking loud. Too loud. Enunciating his words, as he probably had in class while reading aloud prior to dropping out of the third grade. Asking dumbass, transparent questions, too, such as, “Bern, I’m trying to remember. What was it you said poured out of that barrel the other night? The fifty-gallon drum. A girl?”