Fallen Father Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  FALLEN FATHER – A GAGE HARTLINE THRILLER (#6)

  Amazon Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2020 by Chuck Driskell

  Published by Autobahn Books

  Cover art by Nat Shane

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

  First Edition: March 2020

  For my three sisters: Julie, Mary Lynne, and Suzanne…and for sweet Dena, who left us much too soon.

  “A man who has never gone to school may steal from a freight car, but if he has a university education, he may steal the whole railroad.”

  - Theodore Roosevelt

  CHAPTER ONE

  Vogel Estate, near Friedberg, Germany

  An air pressure change disturbed the inky blackness of Karl’s bedroom. Someone had just entered the room. Karl had felt the subtle pressure on his eardrums enough times to know exactly what had just happened. It wasn’t his nurse because she’d have engaged the switch for the nightlights if she were coming to check on him. It wasn’t his wife, either. They’d not slept in the same bed in decades and she wouldn’t check on him at night. One of the girls? Surely not—they never came to visit, and with good reason.

  Karl lay perfectly still, listening. Despite his eroding body, his hearing remained keen. For about a minute, there was nothing. Perhaps it had been his imagination. But then, as his ears gradually attuned, he thought he could make out the sound of someone breathing—slow, steady, deep. He strained to see, but cataracts and seven decades had clouded his eyes over, leaving him with the permanent and irritating sensation of staring through a pair of greasy, smudged glasses.

  Despite his poor vision, right there in front of him, in the blackness of the room, he detected a silhouette. He couldn’t quite tell if the person were large or small. Whoever was there had come through the door and was now watching him.

  “Who is that?” Karl called out. “Who’s there?”

  No response.

  He strained to see more detail. Rubbed his eyes. Maybe there wasn’t anyone standing there after all. But something had awakened him—the air pressure change. Just as he’d swear he felt it, he’d also swear he heard another person’s breathing. Karl wasn’t an alarmist. He’d spent a lifetime building a fortune that helped shape the local Hessen economy. At one time, he’d been the largest individual landowner in the entire federal state. It sometimes amazed him that, despite the heights he’d experienced; despite the significant things he’d done; despite the giants he’d slain; despite the world leaders who’d courted his influence; tiny instances such as this one could still unnerve him—he might as well be worried about the proverbial boogeyman under his bed.

  His bony fingers reached to his right, grasping the call button. He twisted the button around, hoping the dull orange light would cast enough illumination to see who was in the room.

  It didn’t.

  Of the innumerable pistols I own, why don’t I have one nearby?

  Karl didn’t want to call his nurse but he had no other choice. He wouldn’t be able to sleep with even the scant notion of an intruder in his room. And, unfortunately, he was too weak to stand. Using his thumb, he depressed the button. He wouldn’t hear Olga coming, not in such a large and well-built house as the estate manor.

  The dim clock on his hospital bed read 5:46 A.M., meaning she’d been asleep for at least six hours. He encouraged each of his nurses to sleep, because on most nights he didn’t have to call them. No grown man liked to be fussed over, especially by a damned nurse. It made his approaching death seem far too real. When he had to urinate, he simply used the bottle hanging from the rail on the side of the bed. In fact, it had been several weeks since he’d had to call, when he’d been having horrible chest pains that had turned out to be his reflux acting up.

  Now that he’d sent the signal, he rolled to his side and waited. He couldn’t see the figure anymore and wondered if he’d somehow conjured it. Perhaps he’d been dreaming.

  Just a dream…just a dream…just a damned dream.

  After about a minute, Olga came into the room and flipped the switch for the nightlights. Now the room was bathed in a low honey glow coming from four dim lights, one on each wall, all controlled by the second switch by the door.

  Though he’d never admit it, he was comforted by Olga’s presence.

  The tension melted away from Karl as he realized there was no one else in the room. It was all he could do not to appear relieved.

  “You okay, Herr Vogel?” Olga asked, frowning with worry as she studied his face.

  “I’m fine,” Vogel answered, his bad eyes staring at the area by the entrance hall. He lifted up as far as he was able and looked all around the well-appointed room, confirming that no one was there.

  But it had seemed so real.

  “Surely you’re not ready to get up yet. You were up till almost midnight.”

  “No, I’m not ready to get up.”

  She walked to him and checked his forehead. “You feel cool. Another blanket?”

  “I’ll be hot.”

  Olga lifted his insulated cup and held the straw for him. “Have some water.”

  He took several dutiful sips and rested his head back onto the thin pillow.

  She clasped her hands behind her back. “May I ask why you called?”

  “Of course. I thought…”

  “Sir?”

  “Nothing, Olga,” he said, deflating. “Just a dream. I awoke and accidentally pressed the button. I’m just a confused old man.”

  With a motherly smile, she shook her head. “You’re not that old.”

  “Old as dirt. If you only knew what I was once capable of.” And what I’m still capable of, from this very bed, the global reach this old man still has…

  Olga tidied his blankets and fluffed a fresh pillow. “I believe you. I’ve heard all sorts of interesting tales about your business dealings.”

  “It wasn’t so long ago, Olga, that I worked eighteen hours a day. Sometimes more.”

  “What fabulous energy.”

  “It wasn’t just that.”

  She stopped what she was doing and tilted her head. “So, what haven’t I heard?”

  “It’s all the things people don’t know.”

  “Such as?”

  He shook his head, checking his ego. “Never you mind.”

  “What are you referring to?”

  Karl said nothing.

  She touched his forehead again. “Are you sure you feel well?”

  “Fine,” he said dismissively.

  One of the most difficult challenges in life is the loss of power—and Karl Vogel, an immensely powerful man, felt the drain on this night. Still, if he could just tell her about the activities he still controlled, the wealth he continued to amass—his clout. Instead, he bit his tongue and silently wished Olga would leave. His boasting was a sign of weakness and, like so many other power moves he’d made, it shamed him afterward.

  Olga checked his water and tucked in the sheets at the base of the bed. “Do you need anything else?”

  “Perhaps you could get word to Thomas,” he said, referring to the estate caretaker. “I can’t reach the lamp with ease anymore. I wonder if he might somehow fashion a light switch here at my bed controls. Have him come by later this morning.”

  Karl didn’t tell her
that he also planned to have Thomas bring him a pistol—his favorite, an 1879 Reyse revolver that would knock a man down like a right hook from Max Schmeling, the world renowned boxer who’d once dined in this very manor.

  “I’ll have Thomas come right over after you’ve had your breakfast,” she said. Olga narrowed her eyes. “You’re sure everything’s okay?”

  “Yes. Go back to bed.”

  “You don’t need to go to the bathroom?”

  “No, damn it,” he snapped, his trademark venom bursting forth.

  Olga’s eyes drifted downward. “Sleep well, Herr Vogel.”

  He nearly apologized. Nearly.

  After Olga turned off the light switch and departed, Karl rested his head back into the cool pillow, shutting his eyes and envisioning the murmuring brook behind his boyhood home. Karl liked to think back to when he and his sisters and friends played down in the brook. It didn’t matter how cold it was, they’d come up with a hundred games, all of them centering around splashing in that tiny stream. Back then, there’d been no problems, no worries, no complicated deals and evil doers. It was a joyous time, long before he’d developed into a man and he’d become inflamed by his lust for more. Back then, it was just the Vogel children and their friends, romping in the sweet waters of the brook.

  Thoughts of the brook worked, just like always. Sleep began to wash over him. Other than making money, few things helped him to feel good these days, but sleep was one of them. Languid, lovely sleep.

  And later this morning, he’d enjoy his single daily cup of strong black coffee as he read Das Handelsblatt. There were still pleasures to be found in life, despite his—

  Click.

  Karl’s eyes snapped open. The click had come from his right, from the closet door. He turned to look—the lighter colored silhouette had returned.

  Mein Gott! Why didn’t I have Olga check the closet?

  He fumbled under the blanket for the call button.

  Before he could find it, he felt the bed depress as an arm leaned over the rail and onto the mattress. A hand pressed roughly over Karl’s mouth. Then, shockingly, the person climbed over the rail and into his bed, sitting on his midsection. The pressure was painful and made his breathing difficult. His unwanted visitor used a single hand and easily tucked both of Karl’s arms under their knees while continuing to cover Karl’s mouth.

  Judging by the strength, Karl believed this person to be a man.

  Then, after a moment of shifting, Karl felt the slightest of skin pricks on the side of his throat. He knew what the man was doing. With his free hand, he’d given Karl an injection. The needle was close enough to his ear that he could hear the fluid rushing into his vein. It seemed to be a sizeable quantity of liquid.

  Karl didn’t know for sure who was sitting on top of him. He suspected, but he couldn’t be sure. If it were who he thought, why now—why tonight?

  Was it a man? Perhaps not. Perhaps it was, indeed, a woman. A strong woman.

  In a matter of seconds, the burning began. It started in his neck, at the site of the injection, and ran to his chest and heart. The intensity grew. Oh, how his neck and chest burned—searing lava surging through his veins.

  The killer climbed off of him and pulled the blankets away. There was a pause. Then, in one deft motion, the killer sliced off Karl’s penis.

  Before he died, Karl identified his killer. It was quite easy because, after the final action, his killer leaned down to Karl’s ear and whispered a vile condemnation that ended with the promise of Karl’s burning in hell forever.

  Karl lived only a few minutes more. Though he didn’t believe in heaven or hell, he knew which direction he’d be headed if such places existed.

  Later that morning, Karl Vogel, wealthy German landowner and entrepreneur, was pronounced dead by his personal physician. The cause of death was congestive heart failure. It had been coming for many years, the grieving physician told the media. He’d cared for the Vogel family since first passing his Approbationsordnung für Ärzte medical boards many years before.

  Finally, after all these years, the family patriarch and builder of the Vogel fortune had passed on. In addition to a lengthy obituary in several regional newspapers including the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, numerous European news outlets reported Karl’s death. There were tributes from many German dignitaries, including a somber eulogy from Chancellor Angela Merkel.

  Only one news outlet, a renegade Berlin website, Die Wahrheit, known for its controversial views, reported Karl’s association with a number of unprosecuted Nazi officers during the early years of his business career.

  This wasn’t much of a blemish for Karl. Many businesspeople worked with former Nazi officers, especially during Reconstruction. But that wasn’t the central thrust of Die Wahrheit’s scathing exposé.

  No, the primary subject of the article dealt with Vogel’s long-time rumored affiliation to organized crime. “Rumored” was the key word. Karl Vogel had never been convicted of such, nor had he ever been officially investigated. The family, consistent with their stoic reputation, made no comment on the article. Karl’s closest friends and business allies brushed off the allegations as ludicrous—the smearing of a long life well lived by a fledgling website, all in the name of cheap publicity.

  Although his funeral was private, thousands turned out in Frankfurt to pay their respects. They filled the Hauptwache, the large plaza near the center of the city. Many of the mourners had worked for Karl Vogel at some point, or lived on land he owned. Nearly all spoke of his generosity and fairness.

  Germany had lost a true statesman.

  Before his body was torched to ashes and spread on his beloved land, Karl’s wife paid for a comprehensive private autopsy to be performed on the day after his death.

  She kept the results to herself.

  * * *

  Fayetteville, North Carolina

  The two punks had started up before the movie screen even came to life. They talked right through the coming attractions. Their laughter could be heard during the advertisement for candy and popcorn. One of them waved his brightly lit iPhone during the appeals for quiet and no mobile phones. Now that the movie had started, the two assholes shifted into obnoxious overdrive.

  Gage Hartline had hoped to enjoy a matinee. For the next few hours, he wanted to relax in a comfy chair as the massive illuminated rectangle did all his thinking for him. He relished the stickiness of the floor. He loved the cool comfort and darkness of a movie theater. These sensations carried him back to his childhood, when a trip to the movies was a special time to be savored.

  In fact, he’d specifically chosen a matinee to escape a large crowd—and to explicitly avoid malignant dickheads like the two sitting in the center of the sixth row. The movie itself was an adaptation of the award-winning novel Seven Years Dead, about the lone surviving American soldier of a late World War II massacre. Years later, the soldier traveled back to Germany, intent on hunting down the SS commander who ordered his unit slaughtered. The story was set in 1952, interspersed with flashbacks of the war, giving the viewer two stories in one. Though the film had been released a number of months before, it had been re-released after receiving Academy Award nominations for, among other things, Best Picture.

  Providing even more Oscar buzz was the rather bizarre death of the book’s dashing author. Though it hadn’t been officially confirmed—and wouldn’t be—numerous sources in the literary and Hollywood communities claimed the book’s author had keeled over immediately following a torrid bedroom session with his dazzling and incredibly athletic wife. Several of the television hosts on E had taken to calling the movie “Seven Minutes Dead.”

  Unmoved by the fanfare, Gage had simply wanted to take in a good war film. He’d finished his chores in the morning and was excited to have some peace—that is, until the two pricks sat down three rows in front of him.

  The opening credits had finished five minutes earlier. The first act was eerily quiet, as the protagonist first
returned to war-torn, post-war Berlin in the early days of his hunt for the Waffen SS commander. Just as the hero of the story exited the train in Berlin’s Zoo Station, his war memories haunting him…

  “That girl up at the popcorn counter sure had some big ol’ titties!” one of the punks yelled to his friend.

  “Tap her like a keg’a Bud Light,” the other one agreed. They both cackled afterward. For good measure, one of them tossed a few pieces of popcorn in the air and let out a loud hoot.

  Feet propped up on the row in front of them, they kept on yapping, loudly, obnoxiously, knowingly—it was obvious they were doing everything they could to irritate the few moviegoers who dotted the theater.

  “Say, fellas,” an older man to Gage’s right said. “Would you please keep it down? My wife and I are trying to watch the movie.”

  Without even turning, one of the punks said, “Sure, man…send your wife over here and we’ll keep reeeeaaaal quiet.”

  “Yeah, while we pass her back and forth!” The two laughed uproariously, quite satisfied with themselves and their crude humor.

  Gage began to feel pressure in his temples. He’d purchased a large bottle of water, hoping to rehydrate after a longer than normal run this morning. He gripped the water, squeezing with both hands as the clear label began to come apart from the pressure.

  The older man and his wife stood and exited the theater.

  “Aw, she don’t wanna come play?” one of the punks asked, followed by another round of hilarity.

  Gage eyed the punks in the low light from the screen. Both had buzz cuts. One wore a cut-off, sleeveless t-shirt and the other a leather jacket. They might have been local military from Fort Bragg or Pope Field—or they might have just been two punks with short hair. It didn’t really matter to Gage. Despite all he did to honor his fellow veterans, he’d met plenty of morons who’d worn the uniform, too.

  “An asshole in uniform is still an asshole,” Colonel Hunter, Gage’s mentor, had said to Gage no less than a dozen times.