Butcher

27

The rain had become an ever-present factor in Kamen's daily plans. It slowed his driving even more, and he'd been no speed demon to begin with. But he did not enjoy driving in the rain. His unfamiliar surroundings presented yet another worry. Working his way outward from the hub of Bayou City, he'd tried for an operational plan that was geographically logical, but the locations of some of the suspects on his primary search list were deceptively placed. Seeing something on a map and finding it in rainy, unfamiliar territory, weren't the same.

Three of the closest communities had been approached alphabetically: Anniston, Bertrand, and one of the list's more promising names, a Dr. Mishna Vyodnek, working at Consolidated Labs some twenty minutes from Bayou City, had not panned out. He found himself sitting in the front seat of the car, water puddling from his raincoat, trying to make heads or tails out of his map.

There were at least two other nearby leads, a veterinarian of Shtolz's approximate age, and a surgeon with the name Raoul Babajarh. He decided to check those two out next and, if time permitted, look up a party in a community called Kewanee. That would bring him into line with New Madrid, and from there he could swing back through Bayou City. If none of his semi-leads checked out, he'd call it a day and tackle the rest tomorrow. Then he saw another stop he reckoned would be on his way and inserted it into his itinerary. With that he pulled back into a stream of trucks and headed for the vet's.

Three hours later Aaron Kamen was winding up a conversation with a retired general practitioner in New Madrid, and for the first time he found someone opening up to him a bit.

“If you don't mind my asking, is this fellow you're looking for in some kind of trouble?” Kamen's day had convinced him that physicians were even more clubby and protective of their own brethren than lawyers or cops. His methodology had been to do a quick thumbnail profile of the type of man he was looking for, one who might have background or expertise in the medical or experimental disciplines, at least fifty years old—he ruled nothing out—and he might have a slight European accent, “a little like mine, perhaps."

None of the persons he'd personally contacted could have been Shtolz, but Nate Fletcher, retired from a lifetime of private practice, was physically excluded by his size. He was all of five feet tall. Many things about a person can be altered or faked, but among the most difficult is the simulation of diminutive stature. Spinal compression notwithstanding, a man who stood nearly six feet tall in 1944 could not have shrunk a foot in fifty years. When he asked if the man in question had been in trouble, it was not in the usual AMA tone.

“The man I'm looking for was a Nazi doctor. He was tried as a war criminal for the torture and murder of many, many persons. He was in his early twenties then, and we know he made his way to North America.” He told the man, Dr. Fletcher, about Alma Purdy.

“You need to go to the po-leece,” the man squeaked at him in a high-pitched voice. “That's the first thing.” Kamen assured him he had and showed him his list of doctors over fifty within fifty miles of Bayou City, his arbitrary parameters.

“I can name about a half dozen doctors over fifty you don't have on that list. And there'd be another two dozen between here and Cape if you'd include Dexter, ‘n’ places like Scott City. You want to make some notes?” He paused to give the youngster time to get his pen out and keep up with him.

“How'd he get his Missouri license? What's this fella got for a diploma to hang on his wall, one of them fakes? Here's what the real thing looks like.” He gestured behind him at a wall full of framed, gilt-edged certification. “Have you thought about sales? Fella like that would do right well in sales. Probably like it, too,” he snorted. “Check out your oddball ministers, too. Be a natural for him.” It was clear that Nate Fletcher was not overly fond of salesmen or men of the cloth. “Fella come through here once claimed to be a Baptist minister, turned out he was nothing but a—what do you call the perverts who molest little boys? Check out your priests and ministers. Bunch of charlatans."

“Well, I sure appreciate your taking—"

“And another thing, I'd run up to Farmington. They've got some older people in there. And I'd—"

“Sure do thank you, Dr. Fletcher.” He was gathering up his materials. Leaving the blow-ups of the old passport and driver's license photos. “If you think of anything else—"

“Talk to some of the old-timers around Bayou City. They can give you lots of names of people emigrated over back in the olden days."

“That's a good idea,” Kamen said, smiling, pulling his raincoat back on.

“I reckon you already talked to Doc Royal."

“Who's that?"

“Be sure to go see Dr. Royal. He's still up there in Bayou City. Been there all his life. He'd know all the old-timers."

“I don't think he's on my list,” Aaron Kamen said, not being totally successful at swallowing a yawn as he made his way to the door.

“He's the first one I'd talk to. Been here since God was a pup. Somebody told me he still works a couple days a week. He's probably like me, a good bit past retirement age. Got the clinic there."

“What clinic is that?"

“The Royal Clinic they used to call it.” He made a face. “But I don't rightly know what the name is now. Some younger fellas got ‘em a practice there in town, too, so I don't really know if Doc Royal's still open but go talk to him."

“I will,” he said, thanking the old gentleman and opening the door. As he headed down the sidewalk toward his car, the high screech of Nate Fletcher called out behind him.

“Don't forget some of the old preachers!" Kamen assured him he wouldn't and waved farewell.

The rain had slackened off somewhat, tapering to a fine mist that was just enough to keep the windshield wipers hypnotically sweeping back and forth across his field of vision. He was getting an eyestrain headache again, and felt unusually tired for no reason.

After fifteen minutes of driving along a slick levee road it occurred to him the terrain looked vaguely familiar, and it dawned on him he'd driven past these landmarks before, only from the opposite direction, when he'd visited Raymond Meara.

A pickup truck shot around him, the men in the front seat looking at him quizzically as they went around the irritatingly slow-moving car. Aaron rubbed his eyes under his glasses and turned the car radio on.

“—rain belt. Widespread heavy rain is flooding the lower Ohio River Valley and the thirty-day forecast indicates greater-than-average precipitation and warm temps for the next thirty days.

“Southeastern Missouri has been drenched with rain for the last five days, and the Mississippi is swollen by more than ten feet, threatening to flood its banks in many places.” Interference crackled. “—expected to reach the flood stage tomorrow. Flood stage there is forty feet. The Missouri Highway Patrol reports—” He switched to music and that irritated him even more, so he shut the radio off.

As he looked to his left he wondered if he'd have to drive through any water on the way back. He'd lost his directional bearings. If Aaron Kamen had glanced to his right instead of his left, far along the horizon he'd have seen a silver band glistening like a knife edge in a break between the distant tree lines. The slim, bright sliver was the edge of the mighty Miss pushing inland. He had sensed danger, true enough, but he'd looked in the wrong direction.