The Pieces We Keep(31)

“Has he been watching war programs? Like on the Military or History Channel?”

“Gracious ... I wouldn’t imagine so.” Her air of uncertainty only raised Audra’s doubts. “Is there a problem?”

“He’s been drawing some violent pictures lately. Then there’s the nightmares he’s having. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of where he’s getting these ideas.”

Meredith went quiet, either brainstorming possibilities or sensing the onset of an accusation.

Another confrontation was the last thing either of them needed. The easiest way Audra could handle this was to provide clearer guidelines during their next visit.

“I actually need to check on Jack. But we’ll talk more later, okay?”

“Sure,” Meredith said. “That’s fine. Give him our love.”

“I will.”

Audra disconnected the call and leaned back onto the headrest. She gazed at the apartment door, home to a son she could have lost. To prevent that from ever occurring, maybe she did need help after all.

She dialed Directory Assistance.

“City and state, please,” asked the automated voice.

“Portland, Oregon,” Audra replied. “For Dr. Newman Shaw.”





14


The name came to Vivian muffled, as if spoken in a dream. She dropped her hands from her ears.

“Vivian!” On the pedestrian walk, parallel to the river, Isaak was hurrying toward her. She set off in a run to halve the distance between them. Upon their meeting, he crushed her to his body, squeezing out her breath, though none of her relief.

The siren continued its warning.

“We have to get to a shelter,” he told her.

She nodded against his cheek.

“Come.” He grabbed her hand and hastened down the path.

On the sidewalk a torrent of strangers scattered in a panic. They were ants fleeing a storm.

Isaak looked around, assessing, calculating. “The Underground station,” he decided aloud. Not waiting for a reply, he towed Vivian deftly through the crowd. They were about to cross the street when two taxis collided. Vivian ducked at the smash of metal and glass, and once more Isaak pulled her close.

For a full second the scene came to halt, like a photograph from the Daily Mail. Then all chaos resumed. Isaak led her onward, but a queue had swelled and divided around the immobile cabs. Each footstep ground shards into salt-like crystals. Over the crunching came a shriek. A woman at the corner had toppled from a shove and scraped her knee on pavement. Blood colored the rip in her stocking.

“I have another idea,” Isaak said.

Vivian nodded. If their surroundings were any indication, the station staircase could be more hazardous than a German bomber. Then again, in her frenzied state, he could lead her to hell and she wouldn’t think to object until waist deep in flames.

“This way,” he said.

Changing direction, they zigzagged in and out of the city blocks and into a vacant alleyway. He came to an abrupt stop. A square wooden door lay on the ground at an angle. A cellar. He jiggled the padlock.

“Damn.” He scanned the ground as though hoping for a dropped key. He resorted to a pile near the trash bin, discards from a building renovation.

Vivian raised her face toward the clouds. Would Hitler give only a taste of a threat, a chance for Chamberlain to reconsider? Or would he punish them unmercifully to deter other countries?

A sharp clank jostled her. Isaak had sent a gray pipe rolling over the cobblestones. “This’ll do,” he said, clutching a narrow piece of steel akin to a crowbar with no hook. He shoved the tool beneath the cellar latch and yanked up with a groan. He yanked again, harder. The fastener bent, yet clung to its bolts.

At minimum she ought to ask whose cellar they were invading; they were no doubt breaking the law. But circumstances, she was learning, dictated a separate set of rules.

Joining him, she grasped the end of the tool with both hands. Its rough, rusted surface pressed into her palms. On a count of three, they heaved and tugged until they pried the latch free. Isaak tossed away the steel and lifted the door. She peeked inside and flinched at the ladder. The shoddy rungs vanished into darkness.

He held out his palm to guide her in. “Trust me.”

For a slew of solid reasons she would be wise to decline. Yet her trust in him, like the depth of her feelings, ignored all sensibility.

She took his hand and mounted the ladder. The slanted wood bowed under her weight. She was halfway down when Isaak climbed on, and she prayed the structure could hold them both.

At the bottom, she found relief on the packed dirt, just as Isaak slammed the door. The cellar turned dark as a coffin. Her lungs sucked a dusty breath.

“There should be a lantern down there,” he said. Creaks marked his descent.