Chapter 21

Schubert, Peters and Genevieve go to James's cabin. A  shoot-out occurs after which Schubert makes a number of alarming discoveries. 

Chapter 21

There was no falling asleep for Schubert this time around. They made the journey to James’s cabin in silence, their thoughts interrupted by the yapping of dogs and the swish of the sled over snow. Geneviève held a Winchester across her lap. A shotgun and another Winchester were wrapped in oil cloth. Peters had brought the weapons. He didn’t know if they would be needed but he preferred to be prepared. He had told Schubert that they were heading into the unknown and if Geneviève’s premonition was to be believed, James could have died by another’s hand. Schubert naïvely suggested he carry the rifle.

“I’m a pretty good shot,” Geneviève countered. “Set up a tin can at one-hundred paces,” she asked Peters. 

Peters ran down the road and set a can atop a fence post.

“Care to put a wager down, sir?” he said, smiling, catching his breath.

“You know I’m not a betting man, Peters. Damn, I can barely see the target. What the hell—five dollars says she misses.” 

Five dollars was half a day’s pay for Peters. He didn’t hesitate. 

“You’re on.”

Geneviève sat cross-legged on the road, left elbow firmly placed on her leg, acting like a gun rest. She racked a shell into the chamber. Her breathing slowed. She was as still as a cobra. She fired and the can flew from the post.

Peters whooped and hollered. 

“Goddamn Miss Geneviève! Where in the hell did you learn to shoot like that?” He clucked approvingly. They had a marksman along.

Schubert was glad for the laughter. 

“How did you know, Peters? Collusion between you two?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” he said grinning, as Schubert handed five dollars over. 

“Care to enlighten us, Geneviève?” Schubert asked.

“I grew up in Northern Ontario. My dad had a trap-line. At that time of my life, I had no interest in anything other than being with him, so he taught me to shoot when I was old enough to hold a .22. I think I was four or five. Seems I had a talent for it. Sort of like you do with singing,” she said, grinning.

About a quarter mile from the cabin, Peters yelled “whoa” and the dogs slowed, coming to a stop. They were restless, their combined strength not nearly spent. Peters unloaded the gear while Geneviève and Schubert tied snowshoes onto their boots. 

The wind had finally died. The overcast sky, quickly fading to dusk, seemed unconcerned. They walked, Geneviève in the lead, familiar with the trail that led from the river. The events of the past twenty-four hours, Schubert observed, had transformed her. She displayed a level of determination and calm that suggested she would’ve been a formidable agent.

Geneviève signaled and the three of them stopped. Although the thick matting of trees prevented a clear avenue of sight, she sensed something. Schubert caught a hint of it a few seconds later—smoke. They separated, each taking up their agreed upon positions: Schubert facing the front door; Peters covering one side and rear; Geneviève, the other side.

Schubert gave the cabin a wide berth. The smoke was heavier now, lying  close to the ground. He pushed through the forest, trying to summon whatever cover he could. He took position and scanned the ground ahead of him. The door to the cabin was shut, but the frame had been damaged; splinters of wood littered the ground. He moved in closer and then he saw it: a body lay partially covered in snow. The amount of blood made him nearly vomit. He could only assume it was James. 

“POLICE!” Schubert called. “Show yourself!” 

The forest swallowed the words as soon as they were spoken. 

“Who’s inside? Identify yourself!”

Schubert remained where he was, waiting for Geneviève and Peters to provide cover. He thought that by now, they too must’ve seen the body. If Geneviève had, her focus remained unchanged. She signaled to Schubert. Now! Run! Schubert gained the porch. Thirty-seconds of adrenalin-fueled shuffling on snowshoes left him heaving for breath. 

“Come out, now!” Schubert could taste the fear welling up from inside. He kicked the door open but rolled away from the entrance. 

A shotgun blast ripped the doorframe, deafening him. No sooner had the shockwave subsided and Geneviève swung around low and fired three shots through the front door. The volley of bullets smacked against the logs. 

Suddenly, all was silence and the smell of gunpowder and blue smoke curling upwards. 

Schubert fought to control his breathing. He called out, playing a hunch.

“Nilsson! We know you’re in there! There’s no way out.”

Seconds later, a voice rumbled through the darkness. 

“You know nothing.” 

It was Nilsson’s voice, cavernous and rough sounding. 

“You might as well give up. We know you killed Stern and Janzen, Rempel and Lundin in Blue River and now James Sinclair.” 

Nilsson coughed and spit. 

“Well done. You are the little policeman, yes? You have two of your dogs with you? Good.”

“Your first mistake was leaving those gold pieces lying around. We found one on Stern, another in Lundin’s cabin. The other mistake was murdering a policeman.”

“Yes, I knew that Jew had another coin hidden away. That was good luck for you, eh?” He coughed again.

Geneviève stood opposite Schubert. She signaled to shoot low, towards the stove. She would shoot high. Schubert must have appeared confused but Geneviève shook her head, repeating the instructions. He nodded.

“Nilsson, what the bloody hell do you…” He swiveled low and fired; Geneviève emptied her Winchester into the rafters. Between his shot and Geneviève’s, a second shotgun blast was heard. Schubert fell back against the wall, stunned by the barrage. Something heavy crashed onto the floor; Geneviève ran into the cabin; Peters smashed the side window, shouting, ready to fire. 

Geneviève kicked the shotgun away from the body. She kept the Winchester pointed at the man’s head.

“Peters!” Schubert, entering the cabin, called out, “We’re clear!”

Schubert lit a lantern. The light was low but it was enough to make an identity.

“It’s him from Doherty’s, Sven Nilsson. Is he dead?” Schubert asked, covering Geneviève with the shotgun. 

Peters felt for a pulse. “Unconscious—he’s breathing.” 

Schubert looked at the shadows playing among the rafters. 

“Geneviève, how did you know he was up there?”

“The fragments on the doorframe, pellets lodged in the porch.” She was breathing heavily, fighting the adrenalin. “I also know this cabin. The rafters offered the only tactical advantage.”

Schubert pointed to the shotgun. It lay shattered on the floor—one of Geneviève’s shots had taken it out. He realized how quickly it could’ve been him dead on the floor. 

“Peters, search the man.”

Peters rolled the man over revealing his other arm. 

“Christ on a bike! Look at his arm. Hand’s been blown clean off.” 

Geneviève stood on the stump—the man groaned. The figure below her repulsed her in ways she hadn’t felt since Paris. 

“He’s no Swede. My guess is he’s a Nazi,” she said. 

Peters pulled a knife from the man’s jacket, handing it over. 

“Looks like Quinn’s boys were right. It’s an SS dagger.”

Schubert slid the knife from its sheathe. There was blood on the blade. He passed it to Geneviève then pushed the shattered table aside. 

Peters searched through the man’s pockets. 

“Look at this. He’s got CO identification by the name of Walter Penner. Sven Nilsson is Walter Penner.” Peters seemed momentarily confused by his revelation.

Schubert nodded. “Thankfully, one less mystery to solve. Let’s secure him before he regains consciousness.”

They dragged him over the floor, the flour beneath him trailing behind. Peters cuffed Penner’s feet together. Schubert cuffed the uninjured arm to a post.

“Right heavy, this bastard is,” Peters said. 

“Tie a noose around his throat and attach it to the rafters. If he moves, it tightens. He’s effectively hog-tied. We’ll stay with him. Bart, get back to town and bring another sled—one for James,” he said pointing, “and leg irons. And bring another man with you—Simpson would be my choice. He’s also a crack shot and strong as an ox. We may need him. We don’t know if more agents are converging on this location. We’ll get a fire on and keep the cold at bay.” 

He turned to Geneviève. But she was already outside, standing over the corpse. She dropped the rifle in the snow and knelt next to the body, clearing snow from the face. Her shoulders began to rock back and forth. Schubert heard a low moan that changed into a high, piercing wail. Geneviève thrust her head to the sky and screamed and then, just as quickly, the forest took her pain unto itself and silence returned.

Schubert stayed awake all night, on watch. There would be no sleep for either of them, not until his men returned and James’s killer was safely behind bars. He hadn’t forgotten the sight of Dickinson’s corpse. 

The stove pulsed a steady warmth. Schubert had tacked a blanket over the door to lessen the draft. At some point during the night, Schubert opened the man’s pack and dumped the contents onto the floor. A bag caught his eye. He was surprised by its weight. 

“Gold coins, I’ll bet,” he said to himself, dumping the contents onto the table. “Prussian twenty-mark gold coins. I’ll be damned,” he said, flipping it over.

They had captured Wraith, or so Schubert believed. At this point, nothing about the killer was clear.

Geneviève asked, “Who is he?” 

“A man with no conscience. A sadistic killer. I’ve never seen such willful brutality. His aliases are Walter Penner and Sven Nilsson. What his real name is, I haven’t a clue.”

She sat opposite the prisoner, waiting for him to regain consciousness. She appeared, Schubert observed, like a predator waiting for its prey. Her silence worried him.

After a while, the man moaned and opened his eyes. “So, I am alive,” he croaked. He surveyed the room. “And trussed like a pig.” He laughed, waving the stump. 

“Not much to laugh about, Penner…or Nilsson…or whatever your name is.”

“So, you have discovered my noms de guerre.” 

Schubert pointed to the Prussian gold.

“These tie you to three murders in Blue River as well as Janzen and Wall in Whitehorse. You made too many mistakes. You killed a cop—you’ll swing for that, not to mention James Sinclair outside.”

But Penner paid him no attention. Instead, he was staring at Geneviève. 

“You are very good with a rifle.” He bowed, as much as the rope would allow. “And you knew I was in the rafters. Military? No. Something else.” He scratched his chin with the stump. “Why do you stare? Do you want something? Want to fuck, little girl?” He thought a moment and began to laugh. “The sporting Englishman outside. Was he your lover? No, I would say he was your brother. Were you fucking your brother?” The laughing gave way to coughs.

“Enough, Penner! Or she’s liable to finish what she started.”

Penner turned to Schubert. “Another Englishman bound by rules. Concerned about manners. You should have killed me while you had the chance. Not like the idiot dead outside.”

Schubert thumbed a gold coin. “You have a small fortune in gold. What’s your mission?” The words sounded ridiculous to Schubert—he hadn’t said those words since his time in London. “You’re going to hang, tried as a spy, a failure. There will be no jury.”

Penner spat on the floor. “I am already dead. Your threats mean nothing.”

“Once more, what is your mission?” Schubert knew his questions rang hollow. 

“Standartenführer Josef Jäger. Colonel, I believe you call it. Number 013-98492. The first rule of war thanks to your Geneva Convention. That is all I will tell you.”

Jäger coughed, spitting up blood. He stared at Schubert a long while and the he swung his gaze towards Geneviève. 

“Tell your little whore to strip. I have never tasted an Englishwoman.”

Schubert never saw it coming. Geneviève sprang from the opposite wall, screaming. She drove the dagger through Jäger’s eye.

“No! Geneviève!” he shouted, too late. 

Penner’s body thrashed with spasms and it jiggled on the noose like a marionette gone mad. Geneviève kneeled into Penner’s body, screaming, pushing the knife further, until she felt it pierce the skull. Schubert tried pulling her off but she wheeled around and hit him. He fell back, stunned and watched as Geneviève pulled out the knife, then thrust the blade up and into the throat. 

“Geneviève,” he said, pulling her back. “Geneviève, he’s dead! Dead!”

She turned to face him. He inhaled sharply—she was covered in Penner’s blood. It dripped from her hair and face; it was in her eyes and mouth. She fell back onto the floor, wiping blood onto her clothes, the floor. Her actions were frantic for a moment and then, she slumped against the overturned table.

She sat motionless for a long while, like she was in some kind of trance. Then, she wiped her face with her arms, turning her palms over, examining her hands. Her eyes had gone wild. She began moaning and then she whispered something, but Schubert didn’t understand. She repeated the phrase, each time more agitated. It sounded like Latin to him, a remnant from the Catholic liturgy. She was about to break. He held her until her rocking ceased and she became still. He lay her down on what remained of the bed and covered her with blankets. 

Eventually, she slept.

Schubert tended the fire—sleep refused his invitation. Two dead men in close proximity had that affect on him, he realized, as irrational as it was. But Wraith was dead. The man had left a trail of bodies across the Yukon. Schubert felt no remorse about his death at the hands of Geneviève but the question of his purpose in Whitehorse was still a mystery, regardless of his confession and the dagger as further evidence. He unwillingly accepted the fact that he would probably never know. 

The man’s story could still be a ruse, he thought. An SS dagger wasn’t impossible to obtain and anyone a moment from death could claim any identity he wished. They had found no identification expect the Swedish passport and the CO card in the name of Walter Penner. Oddly, it seemed that the man had wanted to die. This confirmed his theory that Jäger had killed Dickinson to avoid interrogation. Jäger had goaded Geneviève until he hit the right nerve and he paid for it with his life. If Jäger had wanted to die, then the puzzle only deepened. Who were the other conspirators? Müller? But he had disappeared.

Geneviève’s sleep had settled into a regular cadence. How she slept, he had no idea, not after what happened. But sleep she did, like an infant. He had managed to clean most of the blood from her face and hands, but her hair was matted with the stuff. 

He lay down next to her and finally gave in to sleep.