“I don’t know,” Cassandra answered. “But he’ll be back soon.”
“How soon, Cassandra?” Hilda asked, deliberately repeating Cassandra’s name to agitate the woman more, a form of psychological intimidation Hilda learned as an interrogator for the Vril Society.
“He didn’t say. Look, Hilda, you won’t get what you want until he gets back anyway, so you might as well—”
Her words were cut short when Hilda unceremoniously shot Cassandra in the shin, shattering the bone and splitting open her calf muscle. Patrick’s wife screamed in agony, but in the storm her screams might as well have been a bad horror movie on someone’s flat-screen TV. Hysterically sobbing, Cassandra held her bleeding leg.
“Don’t suggest to me what to do, Cassie,” Hilda cautioned her captive. “I know very well what to do. Besides, I did not come here to wait for your hubby to come home, my darling.”
Cassandra looked up at the beautiful young assailant who came over to crouch next to her, grabbing her by the hair for a cozy one-on-one. She dared not utter another word, in case Hilda decided she did not feel like listening again.
“I came here to hurt you. That’s all. To beg him for what I want is simply not constructive or time efficient, you see?” she disclosed her intention to the dread of Cassandra, who was barely staying conscious. But Cassandra knew she was in for a long night of grievous bodily harm, and she did not think that her weak heart could handle that amount of pain. Making up her mind once and for all, she leapt up on one leg and grabbed the heavy ashtray from the table, using all her strength to strike Hilda against the head.
The blow was more effective than Cassandra ever anticipated she was capable of. Hilda’s scalp split on impact and the wallop sent her to the floor, but she was just disorientated. Cassandra had hoped to put her out with that blow, but the force had dislodged the ashtray from her hand and now she was left unarmed. Hilda bellowed in fury for Cassandra’s impudence and tackled the wounded, screaming woman. But Cassandra realized she was fighting for her life and she grabbed her knitting, jamming it into Hilda’s face. Violently and relentlessly she stabbed, having no idea if it even helped to fight off her attacker.
“You’re dead, bitch!” Hilda growled. She punched Cassandra in the face repeatedly until her face was a bloody mess. Cassandra fell limply to the ground from the punishment, which broke Hilda’s hold on her. It was now or never for Cassandra… again. Her adrenaline jolted her body into action and she dashed for the window, flinging herself through the glass to escape. Outside in the mud she crawled to the fence, screaming frantically for the neighbors, who rushed out to find the cause of the ruckus.
Hilda chose to leave it at that. She was far from finished and in a few days she vowed to finish the job… with Patrick Smith.
Chapter 17
Jari watched his guests with a keen eye. His dogs came to sit by his chair, one on each side. It was peculiar. As if they were trained to do so, the large black beasts took their places. Purdue could hardly stifle his eagerness to ask the questions he had traveled so far to ask, but he had to give Sam time to ease into it.
“Jari, do you mind if I ask a few questions?” Sam asked their host.
“Not at all,” Jari replied kindly.
Nina took up the video camera. “You don’t mind being filmed, do you?” she smiled, really working her charm. It was unnecessary, though, for the old man would probably allow her anything.
“You may film, yes,” he nodded, satisfied.
“How long have you been an art collector?” Sam asked, reading from his notepad. Purdue listened as the art and relic dealer answered every mundane question Sam directed at him with professionalism and content. He was getting awfully impatient with their charade and wished he could just come out and tell Jari why they were really there, but gold was not a thing to be given away so easily, especially when the billionaire considered it a godsend, bestowed on him personally.
Dave Purdue was far from a religious or even spiritual person, but he could not deny the blessings that certain people and certain opportunities have brought him under the mask of self-respect and discipline. The place where they were now almost owned a magical quality, full of old-world guile just like the craftiness concealing the house and the precise behavior of the dogs.
“What are their names?” Purdue asked inadvertently. He gasped at the realization that he spoke out of turn, as if sleepwalking, and talked right over one of Jari’s lectures about how to choose a good artifact. Sam and Nina both looked at Purdue in puzzlement as Jari ceased his words.
“Oh, my God, I am so sorry!” Purdue apologized liberally for his error. His open hands were out in front of him in contrition. “I don’t know what happened there. I… I just said what I was thinking. My sincerest apologies.”
“Whose names, Dave?” Jari asked, completely disregarding Purdue’s blunder with a twinkle of humor in his eyes.
“The…” Purdue cleared his throat awkwardly, “the dogs, your dogs. I’m just curious.”
“This is Geri,” Jari pointed to the dog on his left, “and this is Freki,” he smiled proudly. Purdue acknowledged the answer with a small salute and sat back again.
“So sorry, Sam. Carry on, please,” Purdue smiled.
Nina fixed the lens on Jari, but she was not fully attentive to the conversation. Just like Purdue a moment before, her mind drifted off to seek the reason for the familiarity she felt at the names of the animals. Utterly bemused, she recalled every name of significance in Nazi history, and then proceeded to think of folk tales and foreign friendships she had forged before. Still nothing came to her to match with the two names.
“Can we take a moment, please?” Jari suddenly asked Sam. “I have to take a piss.”
Sam laughed, “Of course, you can take a piss! This is your house, after all.”
“Kiitos,” Jari smiled and disappeared into the dark heart of the house, leaving his two canines on point to watch the visitors. At least that is how it seemed.
“When are you going to get to the real question, Sam?” Purdue pressed in a soft voice.
“Aye,” Nina agreed, “you are taking too long.”
“I have to make it look believable, people!” Sam explained as quietly as he could. “I’ve done this a million times. It is not just for asking straight out, ‘hey, so, who is the artist you inherited the fucking cross from?’ There is more to it!”
“Josef Palevski,” came the answer from the doorway that led to the porch. Jari stood there, lighting his pipe.
Purdue, Sam, and Nina were dumbstruck. They never expected him to be back so soon, nor did they ever think he would be willing to answer this all-important question.
“It’s written on that prob-… pro-… provenance I sent you with the relic, Mr. Purdue. Or you had a hard time to make out the handwriting?”
Again he delivered a revelation that shook all three of them.
“How did you know who I was, Jari?” Purdue asked, pleasantly amazed.
“Do you think I don’t look for what kind of people I make transactions with?” he asked Purdue. “By the time I sent you the stone cross…” he puffed at his pipe, “I knew the size of your shoe.” Jari laughed robustly at their feeble attempts at deceit. “You could have spared much time just by telling me why you came.”
“Truthfully, we didn’t think you would tell us,” Nina shrugged awkwardly.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because you probably did not want to explain who gave it to you to complete strangers, just because they asked for no reason at all,” Sam fumbled his answer ineloquently.
“That is the only time I would have told you,” Jari exclaimed in astounded disbelief. He was obviously entertained by their careful scrutiny. “If for no reason, then where is the harm, eh?”