Knights of the Blood (15 page)

Slowly Jurg hauled himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily in front of Stucke’s still—bleeding form. The old man was unconscious now, but blood still pulsed from the terrible wound in his neck. Bracing his arms against the wall of the container to either side of the old man’s lolling head, Jurg lowered his mouth over the wound and began to suck. The blood was hot and slightly salty, filling his mouth, but despite a renewed reflex to gag, Jurg forced himself to swallow. His stomach churned as the blood went down, but he closed his eyes and kept on blindly swallowing.

Behind him Kluge watched with arrogant contempt as Jurg continued to go through the motions that–for him–would never gain him eternal life. Finally, Kluge reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him away from what was now a corpse.

“Enough,” he said. “Cut him down, and then let’s get him out of here.”

Numbly Jurg unsnapped the pouch on his belt and pulled out a Puma folding knife. With leaden fingers, he opened the knife and crouched down, cutting Stucke’s feet free as Kluge threw back both doors of the container and jumped down to the concrete floor. Jurg stood up to saw through the ropes holding Stucke to the wall, then took the full weight of the dead man in his arms and dragged him to the end of the container. At Kluge’s command, Egon had brought up a wheelbarrow and was retreating again in the direction of the wash rack. With Kluge’s help, Jurg lowered the lifeless body into the wheelbarrow, then jumped down beside him. Kluge had hardly any blood on his black coverall, but Jurg and the body were bloody almost from head to foot.

“Take him over to the wash rack and hose him off,” Kluge said. “I don’t want any blood left on him, understand? While you’re at it, clean yourself up and get rid of those things you’re wearing. You can put on the Jew’s clothes, for now. He won’t be needing them.”

Glassy—eyed, Jurg did as he was ordered, picking up the handles of the wheelbarrow and pushing it over to the corner of the garage, next to the wash rack, wondering how long it would take to feel different. Turning on the hose, he waited for it to build up pressure, then began spraying it over Stucke’s corpse, flushing the congealing blood from the body. Twice he had to stop to tip the bloody water from the wheelbarrow, but after three or four minutes, Stucke’s body glistened a bluish gray in the soft light cast by the primus lamp.

Kluge went back into the container to retrieve his razor while Jurg worked, making a cursory inspection of the blood—spattered interior. It didn’t show much, against the red—painted inside–which was the whole point of the exercise–but he would have Jurg hose it out, too. When he returned to the door of the box, Jurg had finished washing down Stucke’s body and was stripped to the waist, sitting on the ground with his blood—soaked jeans down around his knees as he struggled to peel them off. He started to get up as Kluge appeared in the doorway–white—faced and anxious in the light of the primus lamp–but Kluge only gave him a mild nod of acknowledgement.

“Rinse yourself off, and then hose out the inside of the box before you get dressed,” he said, jumping Iightly to the ground.

He appearea to put Jurg out of mind as he strolled idly along the edge of the shadows, apparently just marking time while he waited for Jurg to finish. The skinhead pulled his jeans off the rest of the way and tossed them on the bloody heap with his jacket and shirt and boots, then scrambled to his feet. Naked, and shivering as much from after—reaction as from cold, he turned modestly toward the wall as he held the hose over his head, using his free hand to scrub away at the clotted blood sticking to his face and scalp. In the dim light cast by the softly hissing primus lamp, his body glowed a pale ivory, surrounded as it was by darkness. As he headed toward the box, draggingg the hose with him, Kluge nodded slightly to himself.

It was time. Stepping back into the shadows, Kluge walked softly back to where Egon was waiting in a darkened doorway. Jurg was climbing into the box, bracing himself against the side to pull himself some slack in the hose.

“Are the others all here?” Kluge asked Egon.

Egon nodded, his eyes as big as saucers. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Then let them in–and unless you want to die right now, don’t even
think
about running away.“

Ducking his head in alarmed agreement, Egon reached back to the door behind him and opened it wide. A dozen more leather rats walked quietly into the room, men and women mixed, the studs on their jackets and wrist bands bouncing tiny points of yellow light across the room.

Silently they spread out, forming a half—circle around the end of the box, Kluge trailing behind their double line. Inside, the sound of the spray hitting metal walls rumbled like mock—thunder, hollow and tinny. At a signal from Kluge, the leather—clad punks began rhythmically clapping their hands.

The sound produced the desired effect. In a hollow scramble of bare feet on wet metal, Jurg appeared in the doorway with the hose, wide—eyed and startled. Instantly, the clapping was punctuated by whistles and catcalls, and cries of, “Faggot!” and “Queer!”

Instinctively, Jurg cupped one hand over his crotch, the other hand still stupidly holding the hose.

“Hey, little boy,” one of the girls shouted, “can’t cover up what you don’t have!” Her voice was oily and edged with nastiness.

“Or what you’re not going to have much longer!” another voice chimed in, followed by a chorus of obscene laughter.

Jurg backed away from the slowly advancing punkers until his buttocks smacked up against one side of the box, only then remembering he still had the hose in his free hand. In a panic, he let out a throaty cry and started to spray his tormentors, only to have one of them whip out a Buck knife and cut the hose outside the box, smugly holding up the cut end that was the mate to Jurg’s. As several of the nastier—looking of the men started to climb up the back of the box, Kluge moved a step nearer.

“Halt.”
The voice was quiet, yet totally commanding. The punkers froze in their tracks, those partway into the box sinking down to a crouching position to glance respectfully back toward their leader. Kluge stepped to the very edge of the light coming out of the box.

“I gave this
swine
an order tonight,” Kluge said softly, “and he disobeyed it. As a result,” Kluge surveyed the punkers standing around him, “the one I was going to give you died.”

A groan of angered despair rose in a dozen throats, quickly silenced by Kluge’s upraised hand.

“I’ve made other arrangements, however. Come out, Jurg,” he said, crooking a finger in invitation.

Jurg’s shaved head moved back and forth in distraught negation.

“No–please–“

“I’m sorry, Jurg, but you’ve been a naughty boy. Now, if you don’t come out on your own, they’ll have to come in and get you–“

“No, please–you can’t!”

All out of patience, Kluge gestured with his chin to the two punkers crouched nearest Jurg. Leering obscenely, the two uncoiled and sauntered back to where Jurg stood cowering against the metal side, his hands clasped over his crotch. He sagged as they pinned back his arms, moaning softly, offering no resistance as they half—dragged him back to the doorway and held him there, right on the edge.

Kluge walked quietly over to the pile of Jurg’s clothes, reaching down to unsnap the pouch that hung from the belt attached to his jeans. Taking out Jurg’s knife, he flicked it open. The soft light of the primus lamp glinted blue—white off the brightly polished blade. Dropping the jeans back on the pile of clothes, Kluge returned to the box, where Jurg’s trembling body was still supported by two of the punkers. At his gesture, they forced him to his knees, one of them bending back his head to expose the throat.

“You wanted to share in the power, tough boy?”

Kluge held the knife high enough for Jurg to see. “No way. No
way!
I told you to be careful with my Jew,” Kluge went on. “You disobeyed. You could have ruined everything.”

Jurg’s breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, and his eyes were wide and terrified as he watched Kluge pass the knife to the punk with the free hand.

“So, it’s feeding time, tough boy.”

As Kluge stepped back and nodded, the knife flashed, and Jurg’s last scream was drowned out by the triumphant shouts of the punkers as they closed in on their flailing feast. Without looking back at his victim, Kluge walked over to where Egon stood shaking next to the wheelbarrow containing Stucke’s body. The tattoo suddenly looked very tame and respectful. Somehow Kluge knew he would not have to repeat tonight’s lesson for Egon.

“Take him back to his apartment,” Kluge said, nodding toward the wheelbarrow. “I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

Egon glanced past Kluge in dread fascination, to where the twelve punkers were feeding on a now supine and motionless Jurg.

“Yes, sir,” he said softly.

As he picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow to follow his instructions, Kluge had already vanished back into the shadows.

MUNICH

THE TRAPP
Family Singers, fresh from their triumph at the Salzburg Festival, had just eluded their Nazi pursuers and were busily hiking over the Alps as the captain of the Lufthansa jetliner turned on the “Fasten Seat Belt” signs and began his descent to Munich’s Riem Airport. The fat woman next to Drummond was still humming, “The Hills Are Alive,” as the wheels screeched into contact with the runway and the pilot threw the jets into reverse—thrust to slow the big Boeing 747, preparatory to taxiing up to the terminal building.

Once the plane had come to a complete stop, Drummond unhooked his seat belt and tried stretching his legs in the confines of his mini—seat. The flight–all eleven hours of it–would have tried the patience of even Maria Von Trapp. Wedged into a seat designed to accommodate a bicouperal amputee, Drummond had been unable to escape the babbling of the woman next to him.

Across two continents and an ocean, he had been subjected to an oral biography of Julie Andrews that would have embarrassed even the most puerile fan magazine. Between snippets about Julie’s pets and her dietary foibles, the immense Mrs. MacDowell had regaled him with a scene—by—scene retelling of the film, commenting along the way that it was far better than the real life adventures of the Trapp Family Singers.

About the time that Drummond was seriously beginning to think about applying his thumb to her carotid artery, the cabin lights dimmed and the inflight movie flickered into life on a wavy screen pulled down six feet in front of him, and Julie sprang into view larger and more distorted than life. Far from quieting down Mrs. MacDowell, the flickering image of her celluloid goddess at once gave her the gift of second sight, enabling her to accurately predict what would happen next in each and every scene.

Drummond decided that he was somehow fundamentally flawed–the result, no doubt, of being that rarest of all earthlings, a native Californian. That same laid—back temperament that allowed him, and hundreds of thousands like him, to live perched on the edge of potentially the most cataclysmic seismic disturbance in the history of the planet, without the least concern that at any moment their entire glittering civilization could be dashed into the sea, also made him constitutionally unable to be rude to the fat lady in the seat next to him.

Perhaps,
he thought
, if I’d been born in New York, I could lean over and tell her to take it outside, or I’d serve her up a knuckle sandwich.

But even the thought of behaving like some misfit from the Big Apple drove Drummond deeper into a cocoon of courtesy. Instead of shoving his thumb against her neck and putting her to sleep for a couple of hours, he found himself making polite noises.

Finally, Julie warbled her last song, the plane landed, and 357 people all leaped to their feet, anxious to crowd the narrow aisles of the aircraft as they pushed and shoved their way toward the door, so that they could be first to the baggage claim area–where their eleven—hour flight could be extended by at least another hour waiting for their luggage. Drummond decided to wait until the flood of tourists had ebbed somewhat before diving into the crowd that streamed past his seat.

He had not reckoned on the edelweiss—fueled desire of Julie Andrews’ roving genealogist to join in the lemming—like race to the land of lost luggage.

“Excuse me, would you please get up so I can get out?”

“I’ll be getting up in just a moment,” Drummond said, almost apologetically.

“No, I mean could you get up now? We might be missing something.” Mrs. MacDowell sounded like a kid at Disneyland pleading to go on a ride.

“Well,” Drummond began, “I can’t really get up; there’s no room in the aisle just now.”

Mrs. MacDowell stood up, stooping to avoid banging her head on the reading lights and air vents above her seat.

“Well, then, if you’ll just let me squeeze past,” she said, as she started to half—climb over Drummond’s lap, visions of chrome—plated luggage carousels, complete with the Trapp Family Singers perched on long—lost suitcases, undoubtedly dancing in her head.

It was the last straw. After eleven hours of Julie Andrews trivia, even an LAPD cop snaps.

“Look, lady. It’s been a long flight. I’m tired, my eyeballs feel like they’ve been rolled in sand, and my brain is numb from your nonstop recitation of thrilling facts about Julie Andrews.” Drummond took a deep breath. “So why don’t you sit down and wait for the crowd to clear out, before I give you an in—flight knuckle sandwich?”

The pudgy features beneath the over—inflated hair wrinkled into a scowl. “New Yorkers,” she said contemptuously, “are
the
rudest people in the world.”

Drummond narrowed his eyes. “We’re also homicidal maniacs,” he said in flat tone. “Now, sit down!”

Defeated, the fat lady huffed back down in her seat. After a strained minute or two, there was a momentary break in the shuffling flow of tourists squeezing past Drummond’s seat, so he took the opportunity to get up and step into the aisle. Standing firmly in place, he held up those passengers from farther back in the aircraft while the lady seated next to him crawled out clutching a large canvas bag and, without so much as a thank—you, headed determinedly down the aisle toward the open hatch.

Inside the terminal building, Drummond shifted his carry—on to the other shoulder and handed his passport and landing card to one of the green—uniformed
Grenzpolizei,
who quickly scanned them, stamped his passport, and then handed it back to him.

“Herr Drummond,” the Grepo said, “I see on your landing card that you are a police officer, yes?”

“That’s right. I’m a captain with the Los Angeles Police Department. Why?”

“Oh, professional courtesy. You are here on police business?” the Grepo asked, pressing a small button on the counter next to his stamps.

“No, just a vacation. I’m headed to Vienna.”

“Ah, Vienna. A beautiful city. Enjoy your stay,
Kapitän. Auf Wiedersehen.”
He gave Drummond a nod and a slight smile, and turned to the next passenger in line.

In the baggage arrival hall, nearly six hundred people milled around waiting for their luggage to magically appear on one of the conveyor belts that led from only—God—knew—where to the stainless steel carousels that were surrounded six—deep by people anxious to recover their luggage so that they could stand in line for half an hour while the customs police conducted a series of random spot checks for smuggled goods.

Drummond saw his canvas—and—leather Gurka bag snake down the conveyor and tumble onto one of the carousels. Fighting his way past a family of Iraqis, he managed to retrieve his bag on its first go—round. Moving back out through the crowd was more difficult with his bag than it had been going in to get it, but somehow he managed to get clear of the mob. He was heading for a row of glistening baggage trolleys when another of the green—uniformed frontier police came up to him and saluted.

“Kapitän Drummond?”

Surprised by the sudden appearance of the policeman, it took Drummond a beat to reply.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m Drummond.”

“Come with me, please,
Kapitän,”
the Grepo said, relieving Drummond of his larger bag.

Not sure what to think, Drummond accompanied the policeman over to the Red and Green customs channels, packed with several hundred people all being carefully interviewed by the customs police. To the left of the Red Channel entrance was a small door marked “Security Personnel Only.” The man with Drummond’s bag tapped in his code on the keyboard next to the door, and within seconds a metallic click announced that the door was unlocked. The Grepo held open the door for Drummond, then followed him through.

A customs official inside glanced up from his desk at the two men, said something to Drummond’s escort in German, and went back to reading a dog—eared copy of
STERN.
Several small, glass—fronted rooms opened off the office, but the German police officer led Drummond past them to another door at the opposite end, there turning to face Drummond and hand him back his bag.

“This is as far as I can take you,
Kapitan,
but the airport lobby is just on the other side of the door.” Smiling, he reached into his pocket and brought out a small card. “If you require any assistance while you are in Germany, please call this number, and one of our fellow officers will do whatever he can to help you.” He held out his hand. “Enjoy your holiday in Germany.”

“Thanks,” Drummond said shaking the man’s hand. Fumbling in his back pocket, he pulled out his wallet and removed one of his own cards. “Here,” he said handing it to the German policeman. “If any of you are ever in Los Angeles, give me a call.”

The Grepo smiled, and then with a salute opened the door that led out into the airport concourse.

Munich’s international airport was a lot like any airport in the United States, Drummond decided, if you could overlook the policemen carrying submachine guns. On the far side of the concourse, he could see the familiar red—and—white Avis sign, and deftly skirting the crowd of people waiting for arriving passengers, he made his way to the car rental desk.

A smiling blond girl in a pert Avis uniform spoke to Drummond in German as he handed her his prepaid car rental voucher.

“Guten Tag, mein Herr. Danke schön.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t speak German.”

“No problem,” said the young woman, with an east Texas drawl you could cut with a Bowie knife. “I speak Yankee just fine.” She flashed Drummond a Pepsodent smile as she spread out the voucher. “My husband is over here with the Army, and I’m what Uncle Sam calls a dependent.”

Her fingers flew across the keyboard next to her desk. “Now, Mr. Drummond, if I could have a look at your driver’s license, please?”

Drummond pulled out his badge case, opened it, and removed his driver’s license from behind his police ID card.

“Here you go,” he said as he handed it over to the girl.

“That’s fine,” she said as she checked the expiration date and matched the photo on the license to Drummond’s face. “If you don’t mind my asking, are you a police officer?”

“Yeah, I’m with LAPD. Why?”

She handed back Drummond’s license. “My husband’s an MP, and his enlistment is up in six months. We were thinking of moving to L.A. when he gets out. You know, maybe getting a job with the LAPD or something.”

“Well,” Drummond said, pulling another of his cards from his wallet, “if you do come to L.A., give me a call. I can’t promise anything, but at least I can tell you where it’s safe to park your car.”

“Oh, gosh, thanks. A captain in homicide–Jim’ll be thrilled!” She tucked his card under the edge of a book on the desk and looked back at the computer screen in front of her. “Now, let’s see. Hmmm. Your voucher entitles you to a group C car ... . “

“What’s a group C car?” Drummond asked, as he stuffed his badge back in his pocket.

“Well, it’s a Ford Fiesta.” She screwed up her lips and made a face.

“Any good?”

“Well, not according to my husband. We’ve got one, a real old clunker, and Jim is always complaining that his foot keeps slipping off the gas pedal.” She tapped the keyboard again, and a new list of cars appeared on the screen.

“Were you serious about us calling you, if we came to L.A.?” she asked wistfully, looking up from her computer.

“Yeah. Why?” Drummond looked puzzled.

Her face brightened. “ ‘Cause in that case, I’m gonna upgrade you to a Mercedes!” She tapped in the code number of Drummond’s voucher, and a moment later the printer next to her buzzed out a copy of his contract. Taking off the top copy, she put it in a folder envelope that she handed to Drummond.

“You’re in parking slot 74. Our courtesy bus is just outside the door.” She smiled radiantly. “Have a nice day, sir.”

The courtesy bus that took Drummond to the Avis parking lot passed a huge coach parked near the front of the airport. As they drove by, Drummond looked at the painting of Julie Andrews dancing across an Alpine meadow that decorated its flanks and shuddered.

Thank God for pretty girls from Texas!
he thought, as he watched the first of the Americans climb on board for the Sound of Music Tour.

In the Avis lot, the cars were parked with Teutonic efficiency, neatly lined up at attention, all of their bumpers in perfect alignment. Drummond had the feeling that if he shouted,
“Sieg Heil,”
all of the hoods would snap open in salute as he walked by. As he approached the end of the line of cars, Drummond could just catch a glimpse of a snowflake—white car standing to the right of an otherwise sober row of metallic gray and silver Fords. When he got to slot 74, he had to check the license plate against the number printed on the key tags to make certain he had the right car.

Several of his friends at the department had Mercedes 190’s, and Drummond had always thought of them as boring, bland, and gutless. The car in slot 74 was none of those things. The snowflake—white Mercedes was the AMG high—performance version of the already incredibly quick 190E. The sculptured body kit improved the car’s drag coefficient significantly, while the lowered and stiffened suspension, allied to a set of Metzler ultra—high performance tires, gave the car superior handling and cornering capabilities. Drummond whistled softly as he tossed his bags into the trunk, locked it, and climbed into the red leather interior of the car.