Sveta sat and listened to Magdalena's firm tread as she walked down the stairs. Moments later she heard the back door open and close. Now she was alone in the house. Except for Hero, who had taken advantage of the open door and chose that moment to jump on her desk and trail her tail under Sveta's nose. Sveta took that as a sign that it was time for a cup of tea and started saving and backing up her files.
Hero followed Sveta down the stairs and into the living room where both of them checked the sleeping Maria. Then they moved to the kitchen. Hero, ever hopeful, walked around under Sveta's feet while she filled the kettle and plugged it in. While the kettle heated up Sveta emptied the tea pot outside and put a handful of dried cat food on a clean saucer for Hero.
She'd just unplugged the kettle and was about to start filling the tea pot when the kitchen door burst open, slamming against the wall. Sveta swung her head round, all ready to ask Magdalena what was wrong. But it wasn't Magdalena at the door. It was a disheveled man. A very angry disheveled man.
"Where are my beckies?" the man demanded as he confronted Sveta from across the kitchen.
Sveta had no idea who the man was, or what he was talking about. What she did know was that he was a threat and she had to get away from him. The only reason he hadn't already grabbed her was because the kitchen table was between them, but now he was walking around one side. The Trelli household was a typical West Virginian household, so there were plenty of guns in the house. Unfortunately, it was also a safety-minded typical West Virginian household, and so there wasn't a loaded gun in every room. However, Sveta did know the location of one loaded gun, and that was in her room. The trouble was the man would probably catch her before she could get to it. What she needed was some way to slow him down, and the last few days of thinking about fighting with expedient weapons came to her aid. She didn't even have to look very far. She already had maybe the perfect weapon in her hand.
The man was still blathering on about his beckies when Sveta started swinging the kettle. He put his hand up to deflect a thrown kettle, but Sveta didn't let go. She swung it in an arc, and as it came round, she tipped it so near-boiling water cascaded from the spout.
The man screamed and Sveta took off. Her heart was pounding so loudly she couldn't tell if she was being followed. She reached her room and grabbed her revolver from its holster and hurried back to the door thumbing back the hammer as she moved, the nearly three-pound weight feather-light in her hands. She got to the top of the stairs just in time. The intruder was halfway up and moving fast.
"Bitch! You'll pay for that. Where are my beckies?" he demanded.
Sveta didn't know or care what the man was talking about. She took aim at his center of mass and started shooting. The booms of the gunshots echoed through the house as she fired until the man fell. Then there was silence.
Sveta sat at the top of the stairs as her body started to shake. She dropped the revolver to the floor and hugged herself.
A baby's cries cut through the silence, and Sveta slowly got to her feet. She'd completely forgotten about Maria. As she stepped over the body of the man who'd burst in to the house she heard police sirens in the distance.
Thursday, Tetschen
Puss walked into the canteen just like he did nearly every day, but today was different. He could feel the eyes following him as he collected his food and carried his tray to the table where he and his men usually ate. The chairs had been shuffled around so there were no empty chairs where Hermann Behrns and Anna would normally have sat. He laid his tray down on the table and sat. "Why's everyone watching me?" he asked.
"You haven't seen the Grantville papers?" Corporal Georg Schlegel asked.
Puss let out a resentful sigh. "No, what are they saying about me this time?"
"It's not you, Sarge," Michael Cleesattel said.
"Yeah! That wife of yours made the front page," Lenhard Poppler said.
"She's all right?" Puss asked.
"Yes, Sarge," Thomas Klein said. "She's covered herself in glory."
Puss had been fairly sure that the guys wouldn't have been so full of humor if anything had happened to Sveta, but it was nice to have it confirmed. "Glory? How? She's in military public relations."
"She bagged Matthias Schön," Lenhard said.
"What!" Puss' exclamation coincided with Michael clipping Lenhard across the ear and Lenhard's cry of pain. For the first time since he'd seen Yorick's beaten body a smile flashed across his face. Situation normal—Lenhard had put his foot in his mouth.
"Matthias Schön seems to have made his way to Grantville for some reason and broken into your family home. Your wife shot him," Thomas said.
"Here, Sergeant," Georg said as he offered him a newspaper. "The Grantville police identified Herr Schön from the photo on a wanted poster."
"Thanks." The headline leapt out of the page.
ST. GEORGE'S DRAGON BREATHES FIRE
The photograph was the same one they'd run when he'd made the front page for rescuing Captain Havemann at Zielona Góra. Either they hadn't had time to produce a new photograph of Sveta before going to press, or she had refused to cooperate. Puss considered what he knew of Sveta and her almost nonexistent sense of humor, decided that it was probably the latter reason, and breathed a sigh of relief that over a hundred miles separated them. "But why did he approach Sveta?" he asked. "And how did he even know where she was?"
"I'm afraid I might be responsible for that," Georg said apologetically. "When we raided the brothel, I still had the letter containing the permission form you signed. It fell from my coat and Herr Schön almost picked it up. He could have seen the name and address."
And that name would have been Corporal Svetlana Andreyevna Trelli. Puss nodded. That would have been enough to tell Schön that she was part of his family and where to go. "But why would he go to Grantville?"
Georg planted his finger on part of the story on the front page. "Your wife says he kept talking about wanting his beckies."
Puss read the paragraph, but looked up, none the wiser. "What beckies? Surely he wasn't after Corporal Behrn's low serial number beckies."
The group sat in silence for a few minutes, and then they started eating and for a few more minutes the silence was only broken by the sounds of spoons on bowls.
"What about the beckies Hermann and Anna insisted he owed the girl?" Thomas asked.
"Those weren't his beckies," Michael said. "They belonged to the brothel."
"Are you sure they weren't his?" Puss asked. "Who paid them to the girl? Schön or one of his men?"
"One of his men," Michael said. "But even if someone paid the girl with Schön's money by mistake, five hundred beckies would have been a pittance compared with the cash he stole from the brothel."
Puss sighed. For a moment there he'd thought they'd found a motive. "Beckies, beckies, beckies. What are we missing?"
"Maybe there is something special about Schön's bundle of beckies," Lenhard suggested.
"Like what?" Michael asked. "Even if they were mint condition low serial number bills like ours, they'd only be worth twice face value at the most."
"You know that, and I know that, but did Schön know that?" Lenhard asked.
"Lenhard might have something there," Thomas said. "Schön did seem convinced that any low serial number beckies were worth three thousand dollars."
Puss vaguely remembered hearing Schön saying that. "How many bills are we talking about here?"
"It was quite a bundle," Michael said. "You checked them, didn't you, Corporal Schlegel?"
"Only to add up their value," Georg said. "There must have been over three hundred bills."
"Three hundred bills at three thousand dollars would be an absolute fortune to a man like Schön," Michael said.
"It's an absolute fortune to me too," Lenhard said.
"It's an absolute fortune to all of us," Puss agreed. "Corporal Schlegel, do you still have those beckies?"
"Of course! They are sitting in the company s
trongbox."
"Then could we have a look at them to see if we're right?" Puss asked.
Georg looked at his barely-started dinner. "Could we eat first?"
"Yes, we can eat first."
Mehlis, near Suhl
Jacob Hockenjoss of Hokenjoss and Klott Waffenfabrik laid down the paper and looked across the office to his partner, Hans Valentin Klott. "It's a pity they couldn't get a photograph of the woman holding her revolver."
Hans looked up from his paper. "But they do identify it as being a Hockenjoss and Klott Army."
Jacob nodded. Any publicity was good, and good publicity was priceless. To have St. George's wife defend herself with one of their revolvers was the best possible publicity. "We're going to have to get that new milling machine just to cope with increased demand."
Hans steepled his fingers and stared at the fire. "The paper says the woman wasn't carrying her revolver at the time, and had to run to her room to get it. That's not good. Why wasn't she carrying it?"
"The Army is heavy."
"So why didn't she buy a lighter gun? Like a .38?"
"A .38 doesn't have the stopping power of the .45," Jacob said. "What we need to produce is a much lighter .45."
"That means reducing it to a four or five shooter with a very short barrel."
"Yes, and the name for such a weapon is obvious . . ." Jacob smiled as he visualized a snub-nosed .45 firing black powder. "We have to call it the Dragon."
****
Lost and Found
Written by Brad Banner
As Les Blocker walked through his veterinary clinic's waiting room he noticed a little girl, Raven Lobkowitz, slumping in her chair in the corner. He saw tears in the girl's eyes, which were focused on something in the distance. He went over to Tracy Lobkowitz, the girl's mother, who was at the checkout counter.
"Is Raven sick?" he asked. "She's usually a bundle of energy when she comes in, asking questions and petting all the dogs and cats".
Tracy said quietly, "She misses her granddaddy. They were pretty much inseparable. When he was left behind by the Ring of Fire, it devastated her. We've taken her in for counseling, but so far it hasn't done much good. They're so overwhelmed down there that she doesn't get much individual time."
Les said, "Yep, they are covered up. I've helped them as a moderator of grief discussion groups. I got trained as a moderator several months after my daughter Emma was killed in a car wreck, back before the Ring of Fire . . ." Les paused in thought. "Jeff Adams and I had an interesting experience at the ring wall the other day. I've written a story about it that might get her attention. With your permission, I'll let her read it. Maybe it will be an icebreaker to get a conversation going with her. I had some problems myself. I was very depressed about losing a good part of my family to the Ring. I really miss my grandson Joe. I bet he and I were about as close as Raven and her granddad."
"It sure won't hurt to try," Tracy said. "Nothing else has worked so far."
Les turned toward his office. "All right then. I'll go get her the rated G version for kids."
***
Les was back with a stack of papers in a few minutes. He had a friend with him. A big reddish-gold Labrador-Golden Retriever mix. Who promptly sat down on Raven's foot. Which elicited a brief giggle from the girl as she glanced up.
Les sat down beside her on the little restored church pew in the waiting room. "Goldie wants you to read her story. Or I'll read it to you."
Raven got an indignant look on her face. "I read The Hobbit out loud to my granddaddy. All of it."
At the mention of her grandfather, Les could see despair coming back into her face. "Then read Goldie's story out loud to us. I'll warn you, Goldie doesn't like it when someone mumbles the story."
Raven began reading in a strong steady voice.
Holes, Bridges, and Walls
By Goldie and Les
Les Blocker was lost in time and place. Sitting on his screened porch, sipping iced tea, he was careful not to let others see his despair, which was deep and wide. Everything was out of place. Even the angle of the sun and the birds in the yard were wrong. Les spent his life building a veterinary practice and a welcoming home for his family. Now a large part of his family was lost to him forever, separated as surely as if they were dead. He thought, I can't drag Ruth Ann and Leslie down with my grief. They have their own burdens. My God, why have you forsaken me! I did nothing to deserve this. Yet, you sent Job's whirlwind to knock my world apart. My grandchildren are as lost to me as if they were killed and worse, I am lost to them. They can't know where I am. Oh my Father, I am lost. . . .
Les was startled out of his self-described navel-gazing by his wife, Ruth Ann, calling him. "Les, you gone deaf? Dinner is on the table. " She and his daughter Leslie were already seated at the kitchen table. They always tried to share weekend meals together.
After Les walked into the kitchen and sat down, Ruth Ann said, "Les, would you say the blessing?"
Meal blessings were rotated among family members. Les dreaded his turn. Saying public prayers always made him antsy. Since the Ring of Fire, he had to control an urge to blurt out all the things he was not thankful for. "Lord, we thank you for the food on this table and for the hands that prepared it. Bless this family and community in our time of struggle. In Christ's name, Amen."
The meal was simple fare; cornbread, boiled garden greens, tomatoes from the greenhouse, plus deer sausage and gravy. Washed down with milk from their Jersey cow.
"Pass me some of that cornbread, Leslie," Les said. "You aren't the only one who likes cornbread and sweet milk. And cornbread and pot liquor. And cornbread and pinto beans. And cornbread and black-eyed peas. Man, I'm going to miss cornbread when the cornmeal is all used up."
Les noticed that Leslie was quieter than normal. "What's on your mind?"
"It's Dr. Adams," Leslie said. "His wife and kids being left behind is bothering him more than he lets on. Plus, all the extra jobs he's doing since the Ring happened. Can you talk to him, Dad? You're the best grief guru I know. Ever since Emma was killed in the car wreck you've been so good with people that have lost family. I don't think Momma and me could have stood it without you or stood losing the rest of the family when they were left in the future."
Les got up from the table and put his dirty dishes in the dishwasher. "I'll see what I can do," he said. Tears were filling his eyes as he walked back to the porch.
****
Ruth Ann motioned a puzzled Leslie in the living room. "I'm getting really worried about your daddy," she said. "He sits on the porch and stares into the distance, sipping his tea. Sipping shine too, when he thinks I've gone to bed. He won't say boo about it, since he thinks he has to be strong for everyone else. You didn't know about it, but when your sister was killed by that drunk driver, he nearly went crazy. Drank and drank and drank. Had bad dreams again from his time in Vietnam as a USAID veterinarian. Les finally put down the bottle and the dreams mostly went away. He began helping other folks who had lost a loved one. It was his ministry. He hasn't been doing any counseling since the Ring of Fire. The dreams have started again and he calls out to the kids in his sleep."
****
Goldie had never felt so lost. Her people had left her at the grandpa's kennel before, but this time a flash of light had separated her from her people. They no longer existed? How? Before the flash, she could feel Milo and Fluffy and the pretty girl-human Emma from across the beautiful bridge into the next place. Even that thin connection was gone now. Worst of all, her friend, the boy Joe, was lost forever. Crossing the bridge would be far better than this.
Grandpa and Grandma and pretty-girl Leslie had new holes in their spirit now, so Goldie knew that they were lost. The annoying little tan, fluffy dog called Khaki in the next cage was lost too. Goldie thought that Khaki would go to the next place soon. The hole in Khaki's spirit was huge. All the people and animals that Khaki knew were gone. All his connections were gone.
Maybe Grandpa cou
ld find Joe. Joe and Grandpa had a special connection. Goldie went with Joe and Grandpa and sometimes the other pretty children when they drove around to see hurting animals that had holes in their bodies and minds. Grandpa fixed those holes sometimes. Sometimes the holes were too big so he helped the animals cross the bridge. Maybe he could fix a spirit hole too. Joe always said that Grandpa could do anything. Everyday new dogs and cats that had lost their people to the flash were brought to the strange animal place. My, what big holes they had. But none as big as Khaki's. Or Grandpa's. And Grandpa had old, healing spirit holes tearing open. Grandpa might decide to go to the next place too.
Goldie knew how to help Grandpa and Khaki the day the clear wall appeared. She could sometimes glimpse the other side and briefly see and feel Joe. Then she could feel Milo and Fluffy and Emma across the beautiful bridge in the next place again. It was a new beautiful bridge but the next place was the same. The same Love was there. The Love was here, of course, but it was somehow clearer and stronger across the bridge. Goldie knew that the only way to heal the spirit holes was to make new connections and make old connections stronger.
****
Les was tired of brooding on the porch so he walked over to the veterinary clinic, which was located across a gravel driveway from his house. Dr. Bentley Alexander, his partner since the Ring, was at the clinic treating a lame cavalry horse. The Scottish farrier, Sergeant Robert MacGregor, was helping him.
"Don't let me interrupt," said Les. "I'm just checking on some of the boarding animals."
Khaki, the miniature poodle, was curled up in the corner of his cage, looking more listless each day. The dog looked like Les felt. He expected his grandson Joe's Labrador-Golden Retriever mix, Goldie, would look the same as Khaki.
Les was surprised to hear a loud bark and see Goldie enthusiastically wagging her tail. "It's great to see you perking up. But what's got into you?" The dog answered with another loud bark and began scratching at the run door. "Okay, okay. We'll go for a walk."