Obsessed Page 13

  Stephen dragged the drum out of the way, pulled out his tools, donned the protective goggles, and lit the cutting torch with the confidence of an experienced journeyman. No problem. Whoosh goes the acetylene, pop goes the oxygen, and we’re in business. He could cut through Fort Knox with a big enough one of these, right?

  His unsteady fingers betrayed his frayed nerves.

  He dropped to one knee and lowered the cutting tip to the lock. If he could cut out the bolt, hopefully the lid would lift out. The torch eased into the hard steel with a blast of oxygen. Not exactly like cutting through butter, but the metal melted away and fell inside.

  He jerked back, struck by a horrifying thought. What if the glowing steel fragments melted the gold on the Stones of David? Too late. Surely Rachel had protected whatever she’d hidden in the safe.

  Drawing the full molten circle around the lock took Stephen several minutes, time enough to heighten his fears that he was ruining the safe’s contents. He finished the cut, turned the torch off, and pulled off the goggles. A ragged but complete gap ringed the two-inch lock.

  He flipped the torch over and tapped the circle. It fell in and landed with a dull thunk. Stephen reached for the hole and jerked back from the heat before he made contact with the metal. He hooked the cutting tip into the hole and pulled up, but the lid refused to budge.

  “Come on . . .”

  Stephen jumped to his feet and jerked back as hard as he could. The lid suddenly released, sending him back two steps and then to his rear end. He stared at the safe, lid dislodged, half covering a hole in the concrete.

  He’d done it.

  He was afraid to look.

  Slowly he rose, hardly aware of the dull pain in his tailbone. He bent over the hole but saw only darkness. He tested the metal for heat, felt it quite cool opposite the cut, and shoved the lid aside. A hole, eighteen inches wide and maybe two feet deep, opened up before his eyes.

  And at the bottom of the safe, an object.

  His movements seemed too slow. The buzzing settled in his ears. There was something in the safe. There was a shallow metal cookie box down there. And there was a picture taped to the top of the box. Several black burn holes spotted the picture.

  Ruth’s picture. Only it said “Esther” on it.

  Stephen stared into her eyes. Esther was a Stone of David. But was there more? See, there’s a tin can under that picture, and in that tin can is something your mother left for you. A hundred million dollars’ worth of something. He could hardly breathe.

  Far above Stephen’s head, a voice yelled.

  Stephen jerked his head up. They’d found his hole in the garage door!

  He plunged his hand into the safe and grabbed the box, but immediately a warning bell clanged in his head. If the Germans were in the garage at this moment, there was a decent chance they would discover him—bad enough. But what would happen if they discovered him with the box under his arm or shoved into his pack?

  For the first time that night, true-blue panic flooded Stephen’s veins. He reacted without conscious thought, like a finely tuned machine masterfully created for a single purpose.

  To hide the treasure.

  He dropped the box back into the hole, shoved the lid over the top, kicked at it until it clanked into place, and then spun the drum back over the whole mess.

  The car. He had to make them think someone had broken in for the car. If they found him down here, they would want to know why a man had broken into the building with a cutting torch and made straight for the boiler room.

  It was all he could do to ignore the whispers in his head that demanded he take the box now. There was a fortune in that box, for heaven’s sake!

  Not a chance. Not that dumb.

  He donned the backpack, grabbed the cutting torch, and scanned the floor. To his eye, it looked undisturbed. At this juncture, he was more concerned with the safe’s well-being than his own. If they found the safe— end of story. If they found him, he still had a chance.

  Stephen turned off the light, slipped out of the room, then poked his head back in and hit the switch one last time just to be sure he’d left no clue. Reason should have him fleeing for safety already, he realized. But he was beyond reason. He slapped off the light and closed the door.

  Now what? Instinct vacated him. Footsteps sounded on the concrete over his head. He had to get out of the basement. Anywhere but down here with the safe.

  Stephen ran for the stairwell and took the steps two at a time. The hum of the elevator told him they were using it rather than the stairs. Maybe he could wait them out here. He pressed up against the wall behind the door into the garage.

  No. He had to get closer to the car—away from the stairs.

  He stepped up to the door and cracked it. Two large forms dressed in T-shirts stood by the large hole in the garage door, backs to him. How far could he get in his tennis shoes before they heard him? The front door had been chained—no exit there. Apart from the Cadillac, thirty yards away, the garage offered no cover.

  The sound of his heart, pounding like a tom-tom, might give him away before his footsteps did. He took a careful breath, squeezed into the garage, and eased the door closed.

  He moved quietly on the edges of his soft-soled shoes, rolling from heel to toe. A shadow in the night, gliding toward the car. He couldn’t bring himself to look up, as if doing so might alert them. He had to reach the car. Every step was one closer to freedom.

  This was idiotic! He was out in the open! At any moment they would glance back and see the thief strolling across their garage, armed to the teeth with his cutting torch. He almost turned to retreat.

  Then again, they hadn’t seen him yet. If they’d seen him, they’d be yelling—

  “Hey!”

  Stephen jerked up. “Hey!” he yelled back.

  The two bouncers he’d met earlier stared at him. Maybe if he distracted them with some clever move, like torching one of the car’s tires, he could buy himself enough time to sprint between them and dive through his hole to freedom.

  The smaller of the two, if “small” could be used in reference to either man, walked toward him. In a moment of lucidity, it struck Stephen that this man was no ordinary thug. No insults, no demands to know what he was doing in their garage, no cautious approach or gun. The man pulled out a cigarette and lit it as he walked. He stopped by the car and leaned on the hood. His friend walked up casually beside him. Neither spoke.

  “You’re leaning on my car,” Stephen said.

  The larger man, the blond, spoke quietly into a radio. German.

  “Get off my car. If you don’t get off the car, I’m going to call the police,” Stephen said. “I don’t know who you think you rented it from, but this limousine belongs to me. My employer. She’s my wife.” That was stupid. “I only came to take what does not belong to you.”

  They appeared not to have heard him. A voice crackled on the radio.

  “I have to talk to your boss. I know this may look a bit out of the ordinary, but it’s imperative that I talk to Roth Braun.”

  They just stared at him. The man with the radio spoke into it again.

  They were probably discussing how to dispose of his body. “Do you recognize me?” Stephen demanded. “I’m the guy who was here this morning, claiming to be a Realtor. Well, I must confess, I’m not a Realtor. But what I am will definitely interest Roth Braun.”

  The quiet blond stepped forward and indicated the elevator across the room. “Please step into the elevator.”

  Stephen hesitated. This was unquestionably one of those life-or-death junctures.

  The man on the hood tossed his cigarette and stood up. “Move.”

  Stephen turned and walked toward the elevator.

  17

  ROTH BRAUN SAT AT RACHEL SPRITZER’S DINNER TABLE DRESSED in a black silk shirt. A heavy gold chain hung around his neck. Stephen stood before the man, unable to hold his eyes. The blond German had blue eyes too, but his were soft, distracted.
Braun’s were cold, still. Like death.

  Stephen’s backpack sat on the floor, contents dumped out and thoroughly examined. Piles of kitchenware were stacked neatly on the dinette. The knickknacks so carefully arranged by Rachel Spritzer had been taken from the walls and shelves along with the paintings. They were conducting a methodic search of the apartment.

  “What’s your name?” Braun asked.

  “Parks,” Stephen said, and cleared a croak from his voice. “Jerry Parks.”

  Braun looked at the blond man. “You said his name was Friedman?”

  “That’s what he told us this morning.”

  Back to Stephen, eyes bland. “Well?”

  “Do you mind if I have a drink?” Stephen asked. “Surely the old woman left some scotch around here.”

  “You burn a hole in the side of my building and ask me for a drink?” A slight grin curved Braun’s wet lips. “Sure, why not? Lars?”

  The blond went to the cupboard and returned with a bottle and a glass. He poured Stephen a finger of amber liquid and then stepped back.

  “Scotch,” Braun said.

  Stephen never touched the stuff, and he barely managed to throw it back without gagging. He set the glass on the table, mind scrambling. One look at Braun, and he knew this man wouldn’t hesitate to do him bodily harm. But he hadn’t betrayed the boiler room, had he? The safe was . . . safe.

  He glanced at his knapsack. “I know this looks a bit strange to you.” Insane was more like it. Stephen forced a tentative smile. “I mean, it’s not every day someone lies about his identity, offers a million dollars for a gutted building, gets thrown out, and then returns at midnight to burn a hole in the garage door, right?”

  Braun’s right eyebrow arched.

  “Well, it makes perfect sense when you know what I know.” Stephen walked to his right and stared around at the bare walls. He was about to make a very big gamble. “Trust me, it does.”

  “Trust doesn’t come naturally to me,” Braun said.

  Stephen had abandoned his theft story during his climb, somewhere around the third floor. Depending on who Braun really was, he would either turn him over to the police or worse.

  “For starters, I’m not a Realtor and I’m certainly not a thief,” he said. “Do I honestly strike you as being desperate enough to risk my life for a Cadillac? I’m interested in the building, not the car.”

  “And what about a rundown building interests you?”

  “You’ll have to ask my employer. Maybe the same thing that interests you.”

  Braun looked amused. Stephen cleared his throat and pushed ahead. “I mean, you have to admit, burning a hole in a garage door might be strange, but refusing an offer of one million dollars for this heap is just as strange, don’t you think?”

  The German studied him for a moment. “Claude.”

  The dark-haired man walked forward. His hand flashed out and struck Stephen on the cheek with enough force to drop an ox. Stephen fell to his seat.

  “You broke into my building, Mr. Parks,” Braun said. “I believe it would be within the law to shoot you.”

  Stephen struggled to his feet. “Then I’ve succeeded, haven’t I?” The night’s emotion suddenly surged in him. “Stop being so dense.” Too much, Stephen, way too much.

  Braun took the insult without any visible reaction, which for some reason unnerved Stephen more than if he’d whipped out a gun. Stephen felt as if he might fall if he didn’t sit. He put a hand on a chair to steady himself. “My employer will pay you two hundred thousand dollars for a three-day lease of the building.”

  His mind worked furiously. He had to get their attention completely off the basement. If he rented the top floor, he could find a way to the basement unnoticed. “Actually, two hundred thousand for a three-day lease of the top two floors.”

  Braun smiled softly. “You burned a hole in my garage door to tell me this? Why don’t you call my Realtor?”

  Stephen hesitated. “Your Realtor doesn’t do property management. His work on this deal is done.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “That’s . . . that’s ridiculous! Two days, then.”

  “Ridiculous? I would say that offering two hundred thousand for two days is ridiculous.”

  If Braun took him up on the offer, he might actually pay. The Stones of David were in that cookie tin down in the safe—they had to be. He could take them and be on his way. Actually, he needed only fifteen minutes, but he had to consider what impression he would leave if the offer failed. He had to persuade them there was something on the upper floor that would require a two-day search.

  “I think he wants to search this flat,” Stephen said. “Something of sentimental value—your guess is as good as mine. Maybe the pictures. Humor him.”

  “Pictures?”

  “The ones in the sunroom. I saw them the last time I was here.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “There’s another hundred thousand in it for me. I’ll give you half of my take. That’s two hundred and fifty—”

  “No.” Braun stood, almost as tall as the man he called Lars, but broader in the shoulders. “Take our guest down to the basement and show him our hospitality,” he said, turning.

  Stephen stepped back. The basement? They were going to hurt him. “If I’m not back by two, my employer will call the police,” he said. He meant to sound matter-of-fact, but his pitch sounded more scared-to-death.

  “I doubt it,” Braun said, turning back.

  “He said you might say that. He also said you were even less likely to want the police involved. You touch me again, and I swear I’ll have the police crawling through this building like bees in a hive. My employer assures me his motivations were purely sentimental. Somehow, I doubt yours are.”

  For several long moments they faced off. A thin smile finally curved Braun’s mouth.

  “Claude, Lars, please excuse us.”

  The two men left and descended the stairs.

  “Jerry Parks?” The man walked up to him. There was enough power in his arms to snap Stephen’s neck with a single twist. He was breathing heavily, deliberately, and Stephen got the impression that he was enjoying himself.

  Braun walked around him. Circled him slowly, arms clasped behind his back. He stopped behind Stephen, lingered for a few seconds, then stepped easily to Stephen’s left.

  The man seemed delighted and doing his best to hide it. Whoever he was, Roth Braun was a man possessed by evil, Stephen thought.

  “There’s nothing to be found here except some old photographs of Jews who deserved to die,” he eventually said.

  A strange brew of emotions bubbled in Stephen’s chest. The picture of the toothless young girl in Rachel Spritzer’s sunroom filled his mind.

  He looked back at Braun. “You won’t know that until you’ve taken a wrecking ball to these walls,” he said, then added, “Up here.”

  “You’re dancing on your own grave.” Roth spoke in a low, gravelly voice. “I can smell it on you. Fear. Sorrow. Desperation. Hope. The most powerful forces known to man. You stink of them all.”

  Stephen barely managed the fear that gripped his mind. Roth’s heart was as black as his shirt.

  “If you ever set foot on my lawn again, I will track you down in your home and burn you along with it. Tell your employer to search for pictures of dead Jews somewhere else. These are mine.”

  Braun turned and walked toward the master bedroom. “Claude will see you out.”

  The tremble that overtook Stephen’s limbs should have been triggered by relief. Braun was setting him free. But the shaking was full of dread. Fear, sorrow, desperation, hope. As Braun had said.

  Susan. Toothless Susan. She might just as easily have been Ruth’s daughter, Esther. For all he knew, Esther had ended up in the same medical lab, and this beast Braun took some kind of demented pleasure in it all.

  Stephen scooped up his backpack and hurried to the door. He wanted out nearly as much as he want
ed that safe in the basement. He met Claude in the stairwell and the man escorted him to the hole he’d burned in the garage door.

  The moment the plastic fell into place behind him, Stephen began to run.

  He couldn’t go home. What if they followed him? Could he dare risk exposing Chaim to these people?

  Stephen ran east, away from the neighborhood, but the moment he was out of Claude’s sight, he doubled back through the alley toward Building B, yanked open the same back door he’d used earlier, and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. He sat down by the window that overlooked Rachel’s apartment. The sunroom was right there, across the street, nearly at eye level. He lowered his head between his knees and began to cry.

  Understanding didn’t seem important. Emotion shouted down reason. Anguish, horror, anger. In a strange way, he felt that he had to right what had been wronged for little Susan, the victim of his mother’s oppressors. He had to become what the Jews couldn’t become in their cages. For Susan’s sake, his mother’s sake, Esther’s sake, he had to take back what was theirs.

  He had to possess that tin box left for him in the safe.

  My little Stone of David.

  If he’d been eager to get to the treasure before, he was now desperate for it. His urgency made no sense; his desire had become a compulsion. How he’d gone from reasonable Realtor to manic desperado in the space of three days, he had no clue.

  He stood, paced, bit his fingernail, and stared at that building across the street.

  Stephen had once heard that over half of the homeless suffered from some sort of mental delusion. Many were once-successful people who’d vacated reason for a small spot in one abandoned building that overlooked another.

  He finally slumped in the corner and rested his head against the wall. The last thing Stephen remembered thinking was that he was losing his mind.

  18

  Torun

  July 21, 1944

  Just before Dawn