Drawing Blood (4 page)

Chapter Six

Elliot

“Hello?”

Elliot smiled in to the handset. “Hey baby.”

He could hear the smile in Janet’s voice when she answered. “Hi sweetheart.”

“How are you?”

She sighed. He could almost feel it. “I’m missing you.”

“I miss you, too. I miss you so much.” He couldn’t hide the sadness in his voice. The woman filling the salt shakers on the mess hall tables smiled at him indulgently. They knew he came in here every Saturday to call Janet.

“Your parents came over for a visit today. We had a nice lunch out on the patio. It was gorgeous here today. What’s it like there?”

“Pissing cats and dogs. Luckily it was all theory study today.”

“Well that’s good. It always takes you so long to get over a cold.”

“You too! That’s just because we keep kissing each other. We make it last, sweetheart.”

She giggled, and he wished the connection was better. He missed her laugh so much.

“I had to call a plumber the other day. The water line to the washtub was leaking. I couldn’t fix it.”

“You should have called my dad to help you.”

He could imagine her shrugging. “I didn’t want to bother anyone.” His hand tightened on the receiver. That was the stuff he was supposed to be taking care of. “But,” she continued on anyway, “I did tighten the washer on the kitchen tap. It was dripping. That much I can do.”

He gave his low laugh because the salt shaker woman was getting closer. He kept his voice low, too. “I’m proud of you.”

“Mmmm. I like that laugh.”

He closed his eyes. It was his private laugh, wasn’t it? He had to use it out here in the mess hall with strange women milling around. Elliot felt his annoyance grow.

“Where are you, anyway? Are you somewhere alone?”

He shook his head as he answered. “No. I’m in the mess hall. The kitchen ladies are here filling the salt and pepper shakers.”

“That’s too bad. I was in the mood for talking dirty.”

“Don’t do that to me.”

“I’m here on the couch in my nightgown. It’s slid up my thighs a bit high -”

“Honey …”

“And it’s very warm in the house. My skin is … damp.”

Elliot licked his lips. “Please, don’t do that.”

“I should take this off. Oooh. Now it’s a bit chilly.”

He laughed again, covering his face.

“I’m rubbing my skin to warm up a bit. It feels nice. Especially over my nipples like this.”

“Jesus -”

“It feels better when you do it, though. When you pinch them, like this …” then she gasped and Elliot felt himself harden involuntarily. “That feels so good. I don’t want to stop.”

“Well …” he looked around, and the woman had moved on two tables down. “Don’t stop then.”

“Okay. I won’t.” She moaned again and he had to squeeze his eyes shut. “Where should my hand go next? I can’t remember anymore. What’s that thing you do that makes me wet?”

“Jesus …”

“Oh, I remember. It’s down here.” She gave a low murmur. It might have been his name.

He kept his eyes shut, face covered. She was breathing heavily against the receiver. He tried not to think about what she was doing but it was impossible. She was whimpering now, rhythmically .

His erection kicked in his pants. He shook his head and had to chuckle, but he kept it low. When she cried out it was just a noise, and he knew he was likely blushing furiously.

“Holy shit. Who was that ?”

It wasn’t a voice he knew, and he felt his stomach drop. “Shit,” he mumbled.

“Who is this?” The voice was laughing now. Fucking party lines.

Janet was laughing, too. “I’ll talk to you next week, babe.”

“You too, honey.”

“Don’t stop now! It’s just getting good.”

Elliot hung up the phone, not all that angry, shaking his head. He never would have thought Janet was capable of that but … apparently she was.

Elliot had to wait a minute before standing up. The women that worked in the kitchen all smiled at him sweetly. He nodded his goodbye. They never told on him for sneaking extra phone time. They all loved him for some strange reason.

After leaving the mess Elliot went by the sickbay to visit Terence Clark. The kid didn’t have a mark on him but he looked absolutely miserable.

“Sergeant Murphy,” he said, politely enough.

“Clark. How you feeling?”

Clark shrugged. “Fine. I’m perfectly fine.”

Murphy sat next to the bed on an uncomfortable metal folding chair. “I’m sorry to hear about the diagnosis, Clark.”

Clark wouldn’t look at him. He scratched his nose and looked away.

Elliot cleared his throat. “I hear the General is trying to find a clerical position here somewhere for you. It’s a job. It’s a pay check, right?”

Clark nodded.

“This never came up before?”

“Nah. Even the medical examiner had missed it. Only the old people in my family have heart attacks.” Clark swallowed hard.

“Heart murmur. I’ve never known anyone with one before.”

“Yeah. I sure am a special breed.”

Elliot stood, chucking the kid on the shoulder. “There are many ways to serve, right Clark? You’re just on a different path now. My dad always used to say, ‘one foot in front of the other.’ Tough shit happens, all you can do is keep going.”

Clark clearly wasn’t won over. “I guess.” At least he was polite about it.

“Rest easy, Clark.”

“Thank you, Sarge.”

That was a tough break. It killed Elliot to see the disappointment in that kid’s face. But chances were good the boy’s mother was over the moon.

“Sergeant Murphy?” He turned to the sound of his name outside the sick bay to see Sergeant Baker from A-company crossing the grass toward him.

“Yeah?”

“David Cleary’s one of yours, isn’t he?”

Elliot frowned. “Yeah. Why?”

“He just got in a fist fight with one of mine. He’s barricaded himself in the showers in his barracks.”

Elliot shook his head. “That doesn’t sound … are you sure it’s Cleary?”

“Oh yeah. Come with me. He might listen to you.”

Elliot followed his colleague to the bunk house in question, shooing away the other enlisted men that were clustered around the door. On the opposite end of the barracks was the latrine and shower, and he could hear the cursing as soon as he stepped in the door.

“He’s all yours,” Baker said, staying put by the door.

Elliot crossed the room with purpose, cringing as the language got more raw and vulgar. The shower was running, too. He stepped in to the tiled room and walked past the johns to the open showers. Steam was in the air and he instantly felt uncomfortable. He loosened his tie as he rounded the corner and had to duck as a fist came flying at his jaw. Cleary’s momentum carried him against the far tiled wall. Elliot could smell the alcohol on him.

Cleary cursed again as he hit the wall, then slid down to his ass. He looked up at Elliot in surprise. “Wha – Sergeant?”

“Cleary? What the fuck are you doing?”

Cleary ran a hand over his hair. “I had too much to drink, sir.”

“I can see that. What are you doing starting a fight with some guy from A-company?”

“He’s a prick.”

“I don’t care. We’re on the same side.”

Cleary gave a cry of frustration, ending the outburst with a loud, “Fuck!”

“And why are you out in public in uniform getting this shitfaced?”

Cleary made another noise, and Elliot realized he was sobbing. “I don’t know!”

Elliot crouched next to Cleary. Water was able to seep up his pant leg, but he didn’t care. “Cleary? What happened?” Cleary shook his head. “No, tell me.”

“He called me a bastard.”

Elliot frowned. “Who the fuck cares what an A-company prick calls you?”

“Not him.” Clearly hiccupped, and it sounded like it hurt. “My dad. I called him today. It’s his birthday, I thought I’d say hi. And then he told me he isn’t my dad. That my mom was a whore .”

“Do you really think that’s true?”

“No.”

“Then what the hell are we doing here?”

Cleary turned his bright red eyes on Elliot. “Because I want it to be true?”

Elliot was no head-shrinker, but he did know that Cleary couldn’t remain active if this kind of behaviour continued.

“Why would you want that to be true?” The more he kept Cleary talking the better. He was calming down.

Cleary was staring at the cuts on his knuckles. Elliot cringed; not at the knuckles, but at the thought of what the other guy probably looked like.

“It would mean I had nothing of my father in me. And I was hoping maybe my mom would have at least had someone that wasn’t a complete asshole.”

“I’m sorry about all that. But here you’re on your own. And you’re an adult. This can’t stand, Cleary.”

“I know, sir.”

“Turn off the water. I don’t want to get all wet.”

Cleary did as he was told. He wasn’t crying, he wasn’t raging. He was … he was nothing but a sopping wet young man in an Army uniform. Looking incredibly pathetic.

“Now get out of those clothes, get in to dry underclothes. And go to bed.”

Cleary nodded dumbly again. Elliot left him standing there, undoing his tie in the showers. He walked back through the barracks, and Baker was still standing guard by the door. He gave Elliot a questioning look.

“He’s okay now. He’s getting out of his clothes and going to bed. I’ll make sure someone here is watching him, someone that won’t make any more trouble.”

Baker nodded, satisfied. “It was Higgins he punched out,” Baker confided, a small smile on his pock-marked face. “We’ve all wanted to do that at some point.”

Elliot smiled back. “Then we won’t have to investigate this further?”

“I don’t see any need to get the MPs involved. He woke up, after all.”

Elliot balked. “He knocked him out?”

“Went down like a bag of cement. The bigger they are …” Baker left it at that and left the barracks. Elliot asked Clyde Walton to keep an eye on Cleary, and the young man was eager to help. He regaled Elliot with the story of how it took two shots to bring down the mighty Duncan Higgins.

Elliot was shaking his head as he left the C-barracks, laughing to himself. He wasn’t a father, but he sure as hell felt like he was in charge of a bunch of fourteen year olds now.

Chapter Seven

Abigail

She kept the marmalade thin as she spread it on her toast then carried her plate to the living room. The view outside was just bland scrub that stretched out maybe ten yards before ending in a thick wall of fog. It was like the edge of the earth started just outside the front door.

The knock at the back kitchen door sounded familiar; three short raps. Her stomach sank, and she moved back through the house to the kitchen, setting her plate on the counter before opening the door.

Hauptmann Bossong stood on her stoop. He had his hands clasped behind his back as he ducked his head in greeting. “Missus Spencer. I am sorry to disturb you this early in the morning. But it would appear someone might be missing from your residence.”

Her stomach clenched tighter. She turned on her heel, not even worrying that the door stayed open to let him in. Blood pounded loudly in her ears as she flung the pocket doors apart. Her father’s bed was empty, disheveled from where he’d slept.

Abigail stalked back to the door, feeling a spike of anger to see the German in her home uninvited, hat in hand. Manners didn’t matter, her skin crawled once again just being in his company.

“What have you done?” She snapped. Her voice was surprisingly angry – more than she’d intended it to be.

He barely reacted to her tone, only making things worse. “One of my men was on the road and found him, Missus Spencer. He came and told me, showed me the body. I recognized him as your father.” He made his back even straighter, which would have seemed impossible if she didn’t watch him do it. “I don’t need to remind you it is not out of necessity that I am here to tell you this. I could have just buried him in town in an unmarked grave. This is courtesy. You will notice I am not asking why he was outside past curfew, and I’m not asking what he was up to.”

Abigail made herself calm down. Threatening her with ridiculous charges was truly the least he could do to her. She had to behave herself. “Can I … may I see him?”

Bossong smiled, nearly charming. “That’s better. I can take you to him. I understand your need for confirmation. I have a car waiting.”

She paused. She had no vehicle of her own. She had hoped to walk to wherever they had him. “Where … where is he?”

“I had him brought to the morgue. You’ll see he was not assaulted. He likely died of exposure, or because of his age. But come, I will drive you. You seem upset.”

This was what her father had warned her of. She couldn’t be seen touring around with an officer of the German Army. And yet she had to know for certain he hadn’t been murdered. She hated that this snake was right … but he was.

“Thank you. Will you allow me a moment to change?”

He actually bowed at the waist. “Of course, I will be outside.”

Abigail’s survival instincts were kicking and screaming: he was being far too nice, and her English upbringing forbade her from rebuking politeness. She nodded and climbed the stairs to her room. With her door locked she dressed in a very bland blue-gray dress under a large navy cardigan. She’d use a band to control her hair but she would certainly not put on any make up.

Abigail met the captain at the back door, where he waited patiently. She was certain he’d been looking through the cupboards, but that hardly made any difference to her. Her plates held no secrets of a military coup.

When they left her house she realized there was no one else with him. That didn’t make her feel any safer. He led her to a Jeep, and helped her climb in the passenger’s side. Abigail nervously scanned the area, trying to see the nearest house to the east. It was still early in the morning and no one was stirring.

“This might be a rough ride, and I do apologize for that.” He started the engine with an unnerving smile. “Make sure to hold on.”

The road was bumpy enough and the vehicle itself wasn’t made for pleasure trips. Abigail was bounced side to side on the narrow dirt trail all the way in to town, and it wasn’t much better after that, it was just slower and seemed gentler.

She’d been to the morgue just over a month ago. She swallowed the lump in her throat, determined that he wouldn’t ever see her cry.

At the squat, unassuming building Hauptmann Bossong even held the door open for her. She nodded to the woman who greeted them; it was the same woman who’d helped with her mother’s funeral. Abigail took note of the older woman’s look at the Captain, but she cordially offered Abigail a cup of tea. Abigail turned it down; her stomach was in a knot. She didn’t want to throw anything else in to it.

“
Je suis désolé
,” the woman said, not unkindly, placing a friendly hand on Abigail’s shoulder. Her tone was only marginally as genuine as it had been when Abigail’s mother had passed.

“Can I please see him?” Abigail asked, hating how small her voice sounded.

“Of course. Please, with me.”

Abigail followed her through the front entrance, past a couple of offices and through swinging doors a lot like the ones seen  in bigger hospitals. The room beyond was stark white and ten degrees cooler than the entrance … but maybe that was her imagination.

Her father was on a metal table in his pajamas, housecoat, and slippers. Abigail approached, about to cry out until she realized Bossong was still behind her. She squeezed her eyes shut then opened them again, trying to be calm. Clinical.

Her father’s face looked peaceful, she decided. There were no visible bruises. She checked his hands. They were likewise unmarked. He looked very pale, but otherwise he could have been sleeping. She put a hand on his still chest.

“Why would you wander off?” She whispered.

Everyone in the room knew enough to keep silent.

Abigail was waiting for the form on that table to take a breath before she realized that, until then, she’d been hoping they were all wrong. Perhaps the Captain had designs on kidnapping her, or he’d made a mistake about who they’d found. Right then she knew for a fact she was alone.

Abigail took her hand back, swallowing hard. Her father’s peaceful face swam. Her eyes were filling up. Her shoulders hunched as she let out a sob, horrified to be breaking down.

“I can have my men come by to help you. I imagine you will want him to rest him next to your mother, along that tree line.” She wasn’t furious the Captain knew all this private information. The growing hole over her heart hurt too much for her to feel anything else. “I imagine they can have the grave dug before nightfall,” he continued on.

“No,” Abigail’s voice suddenly sounded strong. “I will do it myself. We dug my mother’s grave. I’ll dig his.”

Bossong was irritatingly agreeable. “Very well. We’ll arrange to have the body back tomorrow for you. You have no way to transport it yourself, that much I do know.”

“Fine.” Abigail wiped the tears off her face before turning around. “Madame Dufour, thank you so much for taking care of him.”

The funeral director’s wife smiled and wrapped Abigail in a motherly hug. She clung to her shoulders, shaking but making herself not cry.

“
Attention à celui-ci
,” the woman whispered softly right against Abigail’s ear. “
Je ne lui fais confiance
.” The woman was warning her about the Captain. She didn’t trust him any more than Abigail did.

Abigail gave her a squeeze in response, then stepped back. “Thank you again. I think … I think I want to go home now.”

The ride back to the farmhouse was a blur of fog and potholes. The captain insisted on walking her to the house, but there was no way to politely refuse. She pushed the back door open then turned in the doorway to thank him for driving her … but he kept walking.

Abigail backed through the entryway and up the three steps to the kitchen. Bossong took his cap off like a gentleman but he backed her right up to the far kitchen counter like a blatant aggressor. His face was a mask of kindness. Abigail didn’t know what to do. Her eyes scanned the kitchen and all that could possibly be a weapon was the rolling pin, a good seven feet away.

She was right at the edge of the counter and Bossong stopped the distance of a long stride away. She tried not to pant but her heart was racing and her hands felt cold already. She was terrified and he hadn’t said a single word yet. He knew now how easy it was to scare her.

“Missus Spencer,” Bossong whispered, giving a sympathetic shake of the head. “It is a tragedy to see a woman left all on her own like this. Where is your husband? Who is this man that lets his wife leave the safety of England for a country like France?”

“He’s …” telling the truth could hardly leave her any more vulnerable than she already was. “He’s being sent to Africa. He’s in the army.”

“I see. He’s protecting you from the evil forces of Germany and Italy, is he?” He took the tiniest step forward. Abigail’s head pulled back of its own accord. It knocked against the upper cabinets. “And yet … I don’t think you feel any safer, do you?”

She made her face still. She wanted to swallow but stopped herself.

“You are the only person in this nothing town that will look me in the face. Why is that?” The captain sounded as though he was wondering out loud to himself. “I know you are scared of me, Abigail.” She really didn’t like him using her first name. It brought out the first bubble of anger. “And yet you are so strong. It is very admirable.” He reached out to take her hand and she let him. At his touch she felt another surge of rage. “But remember … having a friend at this time can make life … more pleasant.”

His thumb was tracing circles on the base of her thumb. Every inch of her body was shrieking silently. She imagined grabbing the marble rolling pin and burying it in the back of his lovely blond head. She even had a moment of insanity where she wanted to smile at the image, but she couldn’t very well do that in this circumstance.

His hand moved to her hip, and this time she shied away from him by stepping to the side.

He suddenly backed up. “My apologies. You are grieving.” Bossong put his cap back on. “If you need anything, you know where I can be found.” He captured her hand again, tightly enough her weak attempt at pulling away failed. He kissed it.

Bile was at the back of her throat but she just met that gray gaze with what she hoped was no emotion whatsoever. He smiled at her. She didn’t smile back.

Bossong left the way he’d come, and when she heard the engine of the Jeep turn over she took her first deep breath. Then another. Then she sank to her knees and sobbed until her chest ached and her eyes burned … and she still wasn’t finished.

She made her feet move. After changing in to something suitable for work, she put the rubbers on and brought a shovel around the side of the house, making her way across the grass to the stand of trees on the far eastern corner of the property. A stone cross marked her mother’s resting place. She’d been buried and handed to the lord for safe keeping as German planes had laboured over head.

Now Abigail was sinking a shovel in to the soft earth under a sky that was gray but silent. Not even the birds dared to make a sound. She knew tears were streaming down her face but she didn’t think she was actually still crying. She had to make sure this was done before she could worry about that.

“
Mademoiselle?
” The voice came from behind her, but she kept digging. Around her people came out of the fog, silent as ghosts. They were also holding shovels.

The man next to her sunk his spade in to the grass four feet from the hole she’d started. She looked up at him, surprised. His expression was of grief, and he dropped his head and lifted another load of earth away. Three, four, five more helped her finish her father’s grave.

Abigail never asked how they knew. She didn’t trust her French well enough, and she knew they didn’t speak English. When the grave was deep enough they all dissolved back in to the fog the way they’d come.

As she stood alone next to the gaping opening she wondered if they’d been real at all .