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.“Does your army normally send attorneys after fugitives, or is that a privilege reserved solely for war criminals?”Judge hated him the more for having a sense of humor.“Believe it or not, I used to be a policeman.Guess I’m a little rusty.”“You’ll find no complaint from me.” Seyss moved the snout of the gun to Judge’s jaw and turned his face so he could better see him.“Now that you mention it, you look like a copper.Jaw a little too square, nose a shade too curious.You would’ve done well in the Gestapo.They only use their weapons once their prisoners are in custody.”“Oh? That sounds like standard SS training.Or was Malmedy a special occasion?”Seyss smirked and shook his head, not answering, and Judge regretted not killing him when he’d had the chance.They had reached the first floor.Seyss hustled Judge to the head of the stairs, then just as quickly backed him up, thrusting his head into the corridor behind him, looking left, then right.There was still no sign of Honey and Judge began to grow nervous wondering just what the feisty Texan had in mind.The rotting crossbeams that latticed the ground floor presented a decided problem.Once down the final flight of stairs, Seyss would have to give up his hostage.Two men couldn’t tiptoe across the beams together.He hoped Honey realized the same thing.Now was the time for him to act, to bargain, to take a damn shot.Who cared if he hit Judge, at least he’d have an open target.Abruptly Seyss forced him to the edge of the landing, whispering in his ear, “I’m sorry, Major, but your services are no longer required.It has been a pleasure.Bon voyage.” And with that he pushed his hostage off the stairs.Judge stumbled into the void, turning as he fell, throwing out an arm toward Seyss.One hand brushed the German’s trousers, catching the cut of his pocket, tearing it while tugging Seyss dangerously close to the edge.Seyss dropped to a knee, butting his palm to the wooden landing to arrest his forward momentum.His pants ripped and a pair of dog tags tumbled free.But Judge’s flailing was in vain.He hung for an instant, paralyzed, then dropped to the basement.He never made it.With a sickening thud, he struck an exposed spar, the wind leaving him in a great rush.He’d landed in a sitting position and a fraction of a second later, his momentum plunged him down.Slipping off the beam, he threw his arms around the splintered spar and arrested his flight.Yet, even as he fell, Honey showed himself.Judge caught his shadow peeking around the salon wall, heard his voice yelling “Halt!” Then a dozen gunshots exploded inside the stairwell.Seyss had gotten his shoot-out, all right.Shards of plaster burst from the wall and fluttered onto Judge’s head.Five seconds later the gunfire had subsided.Honey called, “You okay?”Hanging from the crossbeam, Judge answered, “Forget about me.Go get that sonuvabitch.Now!”The sound of Honey’s boots thumping up the stairs was his only response.Gasping for breath, he dug his nails into the soft wood and attempted to swing his legs up to the beam.A thousand needles jabbed his abdomen, stopping his motion midway and threatening his grip on the beam.Grunting, he dropped his legs and adjusted his hands, interlocking his fingers.His muscles quickly caught fire.A glance below provided little reassurance.He had been wrong about its being twenty feet to the basement floor.It was twenty-five at least.He’d be lucky to survive with two broken legs.And the thought of the failure to capture Seyss, a defeat crowned not only by his own incompetence but by his death or injury, spurred in Judge a sudden, tireless fury.Crying out, he gave his legs a mighty swing and brought an ankle over the beam.Another grunt and he’d pulled himself flat onto the spar.Honey appeared at the top of the steps a moment later.Seeing Judge, he ran down the stairs and helped him off the beam and into the foyer.“He’s gone.Dropped out the back window.”Judge eyed him through a veil of frustration and self-loathing.“Why didn’t you go after him?”“Didn’t think I could catch him, if you want to know.” Honey shot him a downcast look, as if disappointed at Judge’s lack of gratitude.“Besides, you take care of your own first.There’ll be another day.”“Yes, there will.”Judge limped out the front door of Lindenstrasse 21, staring into the blue German sky.A spasm fired in his back, and, grimacing, he swore to do everything within his power to haul in Erich Siegfried Seyss.CHAPTER11INGRID BACH WOKE TO THE SHARP report of rifle fire cascading down the valley.Opening her eyes, she stared at the ceiling and waited for the next shot.Crack! She flinched.There passed a comma of silence, raw and empty, then the gun’s echo whistled over the treetops and departed the meadow.Damn the Americans, she thought to herself.Will they ever stop hunting my precious chamois? The question dissolved like a wisp of smoke.They would stop when they left the country.Not before.Ingrid lay still for a few seconds longer, treasuring the last calm she would have until late that evening, then rose from her bed and padded to the window.Last night’s forecast had called for cloudy skies and showers.People used to joke that the only thing more inaccurate than the weather forecast was a bulletin from the front.Drawing the curtains, she peered from the window.The sky was frosted blue, without a single cloud.Forecasting hadn’t improved, but at least the war was over.Opening the window, she thrust her head into the morning sun.The air was crisp and breezy, a tinge of warmth hiding deep in its folds.The hooded peaks of the Furka and the Wasserhorn loomed close above her shoulder, silently guarding the entrance to a narrow valley that in summer exploded in a palette of greens and in winter hid under a blanket of snow.One hundred yards from her window curved the shore of a crystal blue lake, its surface scalloped by a freshening wind.Her perfectionist’s eye caught a streak of exposed wood on the gazebo in Agnes’ Meadow where she had been married.She would dig up a can of paint in the garage and touch up the eaves, first thing.Having thus begun her list of items to accomplish during the day, Ingrid closed the window and walked purposefully to her bathroom where she made her toilette.A hundred strokes of her mother’s sterling hairbrush, a cold-water rinse for her face and neck, then a few dabs of makeup.She was disappointed to see her favorite lipstick, Guerlain’s Passion de la Nuit, was nearly exhausted.The rouge and mascara her husband had spirited from Paris had run out months ago.Once the lodge had been full of luxuries from all corners of the ever-expanding Reich: Russian furs, Danish hams, Polish vodka, and, of course, French fashions—dresses, scarves, cosmetics.All of it had gone to keep the household running.Finished applying her lipstick, she moved closer to the mirror to give herself a final looking over.As usual, she was overwhelmed by her plain appearance.Her eyes were a common blue, neither pale nor particularly colorful.Her nose was a shade long, dignified with a barely perceptible cleft at its tip.“Patrician,” her father had called it and it was his greatest compliment.The summer sun had sprinkled her cheeks with freckles.Her one mystery and sole asset were her lips, which were full and well formed and naturally crimson
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