“Here we are,” Beck announced proudly as the car slowed down and carried them into a cathedral dome of tree branches that bore incalculable lanterns of red, white, yellow, blue, and green. It was ironic how such a cheerful looking place could be the tomb of powerful men, but then he remembered the name of the property owner and the malice that tarnished her title among the clan Beck had referred to.
“Remarkable,” Purdue whispered involuntarily.
“What is?” Beck asked as the modest, but classy home came into view.
“This place looks completely out of place,” Purdue mentioned, his wonder barely exhibiting his abhorrence for the situation and the people involved. “This house, this yard, the design; it all belongs in the American South, like some place in the bayous where voodoo chants are as natural as the song of crickets.”
Beck frowned. “Really. You’re being delivered into the hands of the darkest souls in the world and your first take is the architecture and cultural design of the snare pen. It’s a good thing you are rich, because your priorities suck,” he laughed as the brought the car to a halt next to the east wall of the old, white-washed Victorian with its large windows and rough masonry. Although it was dark, Purdue could see the wild garden hugging the walls and the quaint, antique lace that decorated the inside window sills. The porch wood was also painted white and the buttresses ornately flavored with wild growth and evergreen foliage. Dirty barge boards told of slight neglect or overly damaging weather, giving the porch a homely and rustic appearance.
“Get out,” Beck commanded after he disengaged the electrical device wired through the passenger door. The tall Purdue had to crane his neck forward to exit the car with his hands tied, and when he stepped out he saw her for the first time. She sat in an old rocking chair, dressed entirely in white, including the head scarf that snaked her skull and gathered in the grip of a broach made of ruby.
It was then that Purdue noticed the veranda stretch along the sides of the house as well, populated with rose trees in large pots and a host of rocking chairs akin to that of the one she was seated upon.
“Specifics appeal to Mother,” Beck informed Purdue as they joined in front of what Purdue now saw was a red Volkswagen Polo — the chariot to his nightmares.
Chapter 20 — Leaving the Ferryman Wanting
The woman stared casually at the new arrivals, bourbon in hand as she gently rocked in the stormy weather. Purdue winced visibly at the sight of her, an evil-looking woman with features close to that of a troll. He estimated her age at approximately seventy years, but her body was deceiving. Like a wasp, her waist exhibited none of the weight gain associated with age in most women and her hands looked like marble, they seemed like the hands of a pianist in how they moved around her glass.
“Wonderful night, is it not, Mr. Purdue?” she croaked in a surprisingly smooth voice over words laden with Austrian flavor. “I must say, I favor the wet weather of your country and the calamity of the clouds! Such ferocious gales.” Her deep set eyes fell hard on his and she smirked, “Like the sublime howling of demons.”
“Does that make you homesick, Madam?” Purdue sneered.
“Watch your mouth!” Beck clobbered the white haired prize he’d dragged to his mistress like a cat with a vermin kill. Purdue fell to his knees, trying not to give them the pleasure of crying out. Instead he groaned and laughed it off, looking more displeased with the mud his knees were buried in, as the downpour wet his clothing and hair.
“Mother, I beg your pardon, but I am in a hurry. If we could conclude our business?” Beck suggested respectfully. “The Ferryman needs to be paid for bringing the cursed soul across the black river,” he winked at Purdue, who was still trying to shake off the bludgeoning he’d just taken from the handle of Beck's flashlight.
“Are you?” she asked sternly. “Are you in a hurry? For what, Mr. Beck? What is your haste?”
“I just have other business to attend to,” he shrugged.
She scoffed and looked the other way dismissively, lifting her glass to drink. “You will stay for dinner, Mr. Beck. I will not allow my hospitality to be abused by flippant callers. Now, bring Mr. Purdue inside before he catches his death… too… early.”
Her voice was decisive. Purdue could feel the cold hand of death brushing over his cheek. Something about Mother was deadly serious, the type of person who did not need to make idle threats in the face of her absolute execution of will. Apart from her foul features, Purdue found her worthy of the subordination she provoked in those who worked for her. As Beck lifted him to his feet in the slippery murk and grass, Mother finished her drink and gave her lanterns one more glance of admiration before she stood up.
Again Purdue played witness to her oddly placed regality as she towered higher than he’d expected. Mother possessed a young woman's slender figure, the product of refusing most meals throughout her life. Her gait was as graceful as her tranquilly wicked demeanor as she strolled along the stretch of the banister to the wide door. “Come inside. We will have dinner and Joseph will pay you after,” she looked at Beck. “Just so you don't take your money and abandon all my hard work on your plate.”
She looked at Purdue and addressed him as if they were chatting at a cocktail party, “I do all my own cooking. Contrary to what people think of my obvious eating disorder, I spend my happiest hours in my kitchen.”
Purdue nodded politely past his scathing headache and burning wrists. Beck shoved him ahead into the lobby and closed the front door. “When will Herr Karsten join us, Mother?”
“I am here, Beck,” a familiar voice answered the investigator from another room. “I canceled my engagements for this special occasion.”
On their way to the drawing room to see Karsten, Purdue noticed the walls from the foyer to the interior of the hallway decked out with paintings of old heroes and gods. As he was maneuvered forward by Beck, he beheld the oils on canvas portraying the feats and features of historical figures like the Roman Emperor Caligula, Gaius Julius Caesar, Alexander the Great, Napoleon Bonaparte, Tsar Ivan the Terrible and, as expected of a collector of such idols, Hitler in full dress uniform.
But Purdue did not have to see these paintings to know what manner of people he was dealing with. Past the framed black and white images of the Gestapo and the SS High Commission, Purdue's tall body was urged. Along with news clippings ornately framed around the photographs of Stalin and von Bismarck he perceived the red, white, and black motif of a folded cloth he knew to be the infamous Swastika flag.
Upon golden goblets lined on the sideboard at the end of the wide corridor he saw the carved insignias of various Nazi societies — the Thule, the Vril, the Black Sun, and several smaller associations within the High Command he only just recognized. The latter were not familiar to Purdue's experience and he intended to keep it that way. Certainly the more well known ones were bad enough to have to deal with.
The plump, well-dressed Karsten was crouching at the fireplace, stoking the fire. His brandy was on the side table and next to it, a dessert plate no larger than a saucer with a half eaten Apfelstrüdel, a likely candidate for the development of Karsten's belt region. Purdue was ushered into the cozy drawing room to join Karsten for what came to be an awkward inspection ritual. Fortunately, Purdue was not the subject of tedious groping or stripped for examination, as would not be above these people, but still he felt violated being stared at from head to toe for approval.
“Good. Good work, Beck. We will not insult Mother with business now,” Karsten said. “First, we eat. After that we will take care of the payments and Purdue's fate.”