Nowhere Land: A Stephan Raszer Investigation Read Online Free PDF Page A

“I’m
sorry for your grief, sir,” he said steadily. “This weather’s having the same
effect on me. But this is a private home, and there’s a child inside. Unless
you have business with me—”
         “ Stefan Razzer ?” the stranger said, his
voice deep and clotted.
         Raszer
cocked his head. “It’s Stee-van with
a long e . Makes it simpler. And the
last name is Ray-zer . Believe me, it
was even more unpronounceable before my grandfather changed it.” He took a
breath. “And who might you be?”
           The man said nothing at first, just held his
bloodshot stare. Raszer determined at that moment that this haggard patriarch
was not on the trail of a renegade wife. Up close, the look in his eyes was
more haunted than accusatory. He was somebody’s father or grandfather, and he
was not, despite the sagging brim of his old fedora, a vagrant. None of this
made him any less a threat. The lump inside his coat shifted, and Raszer knew
that Monica must be growing alarmed. He moved in another step. The old fellow
was beginning to teeter like Humpty Dumpty, and Raszer reasoned that if he got
close enough, he could unseat him before he had a chance to pull out a weapon.
         “Don’t
mean to be ungracious,” he said, “but we’ve had some trouble lately. Would you
mind showing me what you’ve got inside your coat?” Raszer put one hand behind
his back, where Monica could see it from the window, and dialed an imaginary
phone. “Why are you here?” he insisted.
         “To save
my daughter’s soul,” the old man said, lips trembling, and suddenly rose up to
a height exceeding six feet. Raszer’s mind raced through the possibilities. Was
this an oath of blood vengeance or a plea for help? Abruptly, there was no time
for thought. He drew his hand from his coat. Raszer feinted right, crouched,
and delivered a well-aimed kick to the funny bone, disabling the grip and
dislodging the concealed weapon, which fell to the wet sidewalk with a dull
slap. As the man staggered, Raszer stepped back and cast a wary glance down. At
his feet was a bound stack of Awake! magazines, the publication of the Watchtower Bible and Tract Society.
         “You’re
a Jehovah’s Witness . . . ” Raszer said, incredulous, staring at the bundle of
soggy pulp while his heart settled. The stranger backed away, his offended arm
raised in defense. For a moment it looked as if he might turn and run.
         “I’m
sorry,” said Raszer. “Truly sorry. I thought . . . are you all right?”
         “Perhaps
I’ve come to the wrong place,” the man replied.
         “No, no
. . . I don’t think so,” Raszer countered, palms raised in peace. “Tell me
what’s on your mind. Tell me about your daughter. Did—did you say her name?”
         “Katy.”
A small spasm caused the corner of his mouth to twitch. “Please,” he added. “If
I can trouble you for a few moments . . . ”
         Raszer
stooped to pick up the stack of magazines and handed them back to his visitor,
whom he now assayed to be no more than sixty-two, behind the full beard and
parchment skin. “Of course,” he said. “Although we’re not among the anointed
here.”
         “You’re
the detective. The cult man from the papers.”
         Raszer
winced. “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.”
         The
stranger sputtered and doubled over in pain.
         “Easy
there,” said Raszer. “Let’s get you out of the rain.” He hoped he hadn’t broken
any bones. The last thing he needed was another lawsuit. He put a hand on the
man’s back, but the intimacy was unwelcome. The man shook off his pain
stoically.
         “My Katy
has been taken,” he said, once his wind had returned. “Will you help me find
her?”
         Raszer
looked up at the window and gave Monica an “all clear” nod.
         “I may
be able to do that,” he said. He paused for a moment in the driveway