Read Online Blood of the Reich by William Dietrich - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William Dietrich
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up a presentation until eight P.M. Saturday so the boss could give a presentation in the Bay Area while we stayed home. Canceled a date that night to clear my calendar for . . . this.” She shook her head. “I guess skinheads work Mondays.” Her ability to joke surprised her.
“Was it a serious date?”
She glanced. He was genuinely curious. “Not yet.” Her frown was wry. “Not after standing him up. Not now.”
He swallowed. “Hope you like the wine.” He gestured to the buildings with his hand. “Challenger is on the way we need to go.”
Rominy felt like a rabbit uncertain when the trapdoor is raised. The air was clean, insects hummed, birds tweeted. The world remained surprisingly normal. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“This way.”
It was a Porta-Potty—not exactly Napa—but then they went into the tasting room with its overstuffed couches, gas fire, and dark paneling. Cozy as a sleep sack. The young woman who sold them a bottle introduced herself as Cora and Jake chatted her up, almost flirting, which unexpectedly annoyed Rominy. Then the woman pointed them up the hill. “Nice view. Do you need a corkscrew?”
“If you please.” Barrow smiled as if this whole thing was a lark.
Cora gave them plastic drinking cups as well.
Rominy and Jake ascended to a wooden table resting beneath the canopy of a three-trunked cedar tree, the painted planking littered with needles. The view was soothing; purposely so, she assumed. Vines marched in soldierly columns down to the main highway, trees, and the green Skagit beyond. Across the river, rank upon rank of forested hills receded. Early autumn gave everything that honey glow.
Rominy was sore, tired, frustrated, and curious. She could run, she could scream, she could beg to use the winery phone . . . and she did none of these things. Watching Barrow work the corkscrew, the river and highway a distant murmur, the shade cool but not unpleasant, she felt oddly relaxed. Was this the Stockholm syndrome, where victims identify with their captor? Or had Barrow really saved her in order to tell her something important? Certainly nothing remotely this interesting occurred in her cubicle at work.
Rominy spent most days staring at either pixels on a glass screen or the gray fabric of her office enclosure, and more evenings than she cared to admit staring at another glass screen at home. Her abode was an apartment on Seattle’s Queen Anne Hill she couldn’t really afford; she kept the heat at 65 to justify premium cable. She went to a gym three mornings a week, belonged to a book club, purposely limited her gossip magazine time to the monthly stint at the hairdresser, club-hopped with girlfriends, and dated with more wariness than excitement. She shopped at IKEA but waited for the Nordstrom sale. On a package to Mexico she’d used her high school Spanish, wore a swimsuit it took two weeks to select, and applied sunblock with religious zeal. She wrote press releases for software engineers who alternately treated her with disdain or flirted from boredom. Her ambitions were to buy a bungalow, own a significant piece of art, or visit Africa, but her dreams were hazy after that. If anyone had asked—and they didn’t—she would have said she was happy.
Yes, something had at last happened.
“A toast.” He poured the wine and hoisted his. “To your illustrious ancestor!”
“My what?” She took a sip, eyeing Jake over the rim of her glass. Not bad, both him and the wine. Her moment of contentment confused her.
“To your great-grandfather, Rominy. To the famous and infamous adventurer, explorer, curator, and secret agent Benjamin Hood.”
“Whatever.”
“Apparently disgraced, however. Stripped of his prerogatives and effectively exiled to the murk of Skagit County at a time, World War Two, when his country might have needed him most. If you think this is rural now, it was the end of the earth then. A man lost to history, and even to his own family.
“Was it a serious date?”
She glanced. He was genuinely curious. “Not yet.” Her frown was wry. “Not after standing him up. Not now.”
He swallowed. “Hope you like the wine.” He gestured to the buildings with his hand. “Challenger is on the way we need to go.”
Rominy felt like a rabbit uncertain when the trapdoor is raised. The air was clean, insects hummed, birds tweeted. The world remained surprisingly normal. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“This way.”
It was a Porta-Potty—not exactly Napa—but then they went into the tasting room with its overstuffed couches, gas fire, and dark paneling. Cozy as a sleep sack. The young woman who sold them a bottle introduced herself as Cora and Jake chatted her up, almost flirting, which unexpectedly annoyed Rominy. Then the woman pointed them up the hill. “Nice view. Do you need a corkscrew?”
“If you please.” Barrow smiled as if this whole thing was a lark.
Cora gave them plastic drinking cups as well.
Rominy and Jake ascended to a wooden table resting beneath the canopy of a three-trunked cedar tree, the painted planking littered with needles. The view was soothing; purposely so, she assumed. Vines marched in soldierly columns down to the main highway, trees, and the green Skagit beyond. Across the river, rank upon rank of forested hills receded. Early autumn gave everything that honey glow.
Rominy was sore, tired, frustrated, and curious. She could run, she could scream, she could beg to use the winery phone . . . and she did none of these things. Watching Barrow work the corkscrew, the river and highway a distant murmur, the shade cool but not unpleasant, she felt oddly relaxed. Was this the Stockholm syndrome, where victims identify with their captor? Or had Barrow really saved her in order to tell her something important? Certainly nothing remotely this interesting occurred in her cubicle at work.
Rominy spent most days staring at either pixels on a glass screen or the gray fabric of her office enclosure, and more evenings than she cared to admit staring at another glass screen at home. Her abode was an apartment on Seattle’s Queen Anne Hill she couldn’t really afford; she kept the heat at 65 to justify premium cable. She went to a gym three mornings a week, belonged to a book club, purposely limited her gossip magazine time to the monthly stint at the hairdresser, club-hopped with girlfriends, and dated with more wariness than excitement. She shopped at IKEA but waited for the Nordstrom sale. On a package to Mexico she’d used her high school Spanish, wore a swimsuit it took two weeks to select, and applied sunblock with religious zeal. She wrote press releases for software engineers who alternately treated her with disdain or flirted from boredom. Her ambitions were to buy a bungalow, own a significant piece of art, or visit Africa, but her dreams were hazy after that. If anyone had asked—and they didn’t—she would have said she was happy.
Yes, something had at last happened.
“A toast.” He poured the wine and hoisted his. “To your illustrious ancestor!”
“My what?” She took a sip, eyeing Jake over the rim of her glass. Not bad, both him and the wine. Her moment of contentment confused her.
“To your great-grandfather, Rominy. To the famous and infamous adventurer, explorer, curator, and secret agent Benjamin Hood.”
“Whatever.”
“Apparently disgraced, however. Stripped of his prerogatives and effectively exiled to the murk of Skagit County at a time, World War Two, when his country might have needed him most. If you think this is rural now, it was the end of the earth then. A man lost to history, and even to his own family.
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