Read Online Blood of the Reich by William Dietrich - Free Book Online
Authors: William Dietrich
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looked at them seriously. “In that case, we might have to consider never returning to Germany. That is not a message the Reichsführer cares to hear.”
9
The Skagit River Valley, United States
September 4, Present Day
N orth of Starbird Road, Interstate 5 dips toward the Skagit River Valley and paradise opens up. The peaks of islands in Washington’s inland sea hump on the northwest horizon: Fidalgo, Lummi, Cypress, and Orcas as green and precipitous as a child’s crayon drawings. To the northeast is the snowy volcanic cone of Mount Baker and the cutover foothills of the Cascade Range. Between is a plump platter of farmland, a onetime bay filled with sediment at the end of the last ice age. The result is some of the richest soil in the world. A hundred crops are grown there: tulips in spring, berries in early summer, and potatoes, corn, and grapes approaching harvest on this day.
The timelessness should have reassured Rominy: the gleam of glaciers, the meringue of clouds, and the orderly phalanx of ripened crops were reassuring. The overcast was breaking and the surface of the Skagit sparkled like sequins, while the valley’s overall palette was toned sepia by September’s golden glaze. She often came here on weekends, bicycling and kayaking to escape the tedium of her cubicle in Seattle. But now the beauty had a sense of menace. Was she really being pursued? Where was Jake Barrow taking her? The old pickup whined as the journalist kept it at seventy-five mph.
Rominy had managed to regain some composure after their escape. Her cheeks were rubbed dry, annoyingly red, her posture as prim as a princess. With time to think, she’d decided to wait and observe, since Jake didn’t seem immediately threatening and she didn’t want to be abandoned somewhere, waiting for skinheads to drive by. Since the insanity on the freeway he’d been quieter, watchful, brooding, checking his mirrors like a fugitive on the lam. Occasionally he’d glance her way and give a half smile, as if reassuring a child or a dog, but he radiated tension the way a stove does heat. The unease made him seem more human, believable, persuadable. Maybe she could talk her way out of this, whatever “this” really was. She thought he’d take side roads, but he seemed more interested in making distance. Half an hour had passed.
“Where are you taking me?” she finally tried. “Do you live up here?”
“You do.”
“What? No!”
“I’m taking you to property you don’t know you own.”
She groaned. “It might relax me a little more if you began making sense.”
He adjusted the rearview mirror for the thousandth time, the little bullet hole in back sighing like a leaking tire. “I’m about to, but I get rattled by car bombs and bullets. I just wanted to get some distance from the skinheads so I have time to explain. What I’m going to tell you is more than a little surprising.” He tried the half smile again. “We could do this at a Starbucks.”
The name conveyed a spark of reassurance. Steamed milk in public. She had a Starbucks card in her wallet.
“But I’m going to suggest something more refined.”
“Don’t go to any trouble.” She didn’t try to keep sarcasm from her voice.
“There’re a couple of wineries up the valley. Your humble rescuer wants to share a bottle of pinot noir while we sort this out. Skagit’s an excellent terroir for that varietal.”
Jesus H. Insanity. Kidnapped by a wine snob. Well, serves you right, Rominy. Should have gone for a Republican in the canned foods aisle. “You know, if you’d come on to me in wine or spices, this might have gone better.”
Now it was Jake’s turn to be confused. “What?”
“Never mind.” She winced. “My knees hurt.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry. I should have said this before. There’s a first aid kit in back of the seat with some antiseptic pads.”
At least the moron looked chagrined.
The space behind the seats was piled with a mildewed tent, sleeping
9
The Skagit River Valley, United States
September 4, Present Day
N orth of Starbird Road, Interstate 5 dips toward the Skagit River Valley and paradise opens up. The peaks of islands in Washington’s inland sea hump on the northwest horizon: Fidalgo, Lummi, Cypress, and Orcas as green and precipitous as a child’s crayon drawings. To the northeast is the snowy volcanic cone of Mount Baker and the cutover foothills of the Cascade Range. Between is a plump platter of farmland, a onetime bay filled with sediment at the end of the last ice age. The result is some of the richest soil in the world. A hundred crops are grown there: tulips in spring, berries in early summer, and potatoes, corn, and grapes approaching harvest on this day.
The timelessness should have reassured Rominy: the gleam of glaciers, the meringue of clouds, and the orderly phalanx of ripened crops were reassuring. The overcast was breaking and the surface of the Skagit sparkled like sequins, while the valley’s overall palette was toned sepia by September’s golden glaze. She often came here on weekends, bicycling and kayaking to escape the tedium of her cubicle in Seattle. But now the beauty had a sense of menace. Was she really being pursued? Where was Jake Barrow taking her? The old pickup whined as the journalist kept it at seventy-five mph.
Rominy had managed to regain some composure after their escape. Her cheeks were rubbed dry, annoyingly red, her posture as prim as a princess. With time to think, she’d decided to wait and observe, since Jake didn’t seem immediately threatening and she didn’t want to be abandoned somewhere, waiting for skinheads to drive by. Since the insanity on the freeway he’d been quieter, watchful, brooding, checking his mirrors like a fugitive on the lam. Occasionally he’d glance her way and give a half smile, as if reassuring a child or a dog, but he radiated tension the way a stove does heat. The unease made him seem more human, believable, persuadable. Maybe she could talk her way out of this, whatever “this” really was. She thought he’d take side roads, but he seemed more interested in making distance. Half an hour had passed.
“Where are you taking me?” she finally tried. “Do you live up here?”
“You do.”
“What? No!”
“I’m taking you to property you don’t know you own.”
She groaned. “It might relax me a little more if you began making sense.”
He adjusted the rearview mirror for the thousandth time, the little bullet hole in back sighing like a leaking tire. “I’m about to, but I get rattled by car bombs and bullets. I just wanted to get some distance from the skinheads so I have time to explain. What I’m going to tell you is more than a little surprising.” He tried the half smile again. “We could do this at a Starbucks.”
The name conveyed a spark of reassurance. Steamed milk in public. She had a Starbucks card in her wallet.
“But I’m going to suggest something more refined.”
“Don’t go to any trouble.” She didn’t try to keep sarcasm from her voice.
“There’re a couple of wineries up the valley. Your humble rescuer wants to share a bottle of pinot noir while we sort this out. Skagit’s an excellent terroir for that varietal.”
Jesus H. Insanity. Kidnapped by a wine snob. Well, serves you right, Rominy. Should have gone for a Republican in the canned foods aisle. “You know, if you’d come on to me in wine or spices, this might have gone better.”
Now it was Jake’s turn to be confused. “What?”
“Never mind.” She winced. “My knees hurt.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry. I should have said this before. There’s a first aid kit in back of the seat with some antiseptic pads.”
At least the moron looked chagrined.
The space behind the seats was piled with a mildewed tent, sleeping
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