Aftershocks

Fifteen: Post-Modern


We did get one lucky break.

There weren’t a lot of photographs to be found of Schmidt – no surprise there; nothing like the fear of deportation and imprisonment – or execution – to make a guy camera-shy. The oldest ones we could find dated back to the late sixties. We collected every one we could get hold of – Willis wanted to try doing age-regression computer projections – but that project got kinda sidetracked.

Like Zak said, someone remembered him.


“My God.” Ruth reached out a gnarled hand to trace the lines of a young Schmidt’s face, looking out sternly from underneath a military cap emblazoned with an SS badge. “I recognise him.”

Rafé looked up, wide-eyed, from the table where he and Stephanie had been working. He nudged her elbow, and she started and swore – mildly, in spite of Addie’s recent influence – at the splatter of black ink that smeared across yet another drawing of an even younger Schmidt. They had been bent over their task for hours, passing sketches back and forth, peeling away the years from the image they’d seen in the photographs. Rafé had done much of the preliminary work, pushing the age of the face back a few years at a time, while Stephanie took each sketch and doodled period details into the background, regressing Schmidt’s environment backwards through the decades. One especially effective drawing showed him scowling at a recognisable scene from “Hogan’s Heroes” on a late 1950s-era console television.

Once they felt they’d taken his age back far enough, Rafé had begun to experiment with other changes – hair style and colour, facial hair, visible traces of weight gain or loss in the face. But Stephanie had taken the real lead. She’d reduced the face to a simplified but still recognisable essence, and covered a large sheet of paper with the same face in a dizzying range of expressions – laughing, shouting, sneering, scowling; eating, drinking, smoking, sleeping; crushed with fatigue, blurry-eyed with liquor, crazed with anger, wooden-faced and dead-eyed in full military dress. Most disturbing were a larger sketch of him saluting a blurry image of Hitler, and another of him leering at some phantom woman that he had glimpsed just off the edge of the sheet of paper.

MacGyver, rising to stretch his back and arms after too many hours absorbed in the computer files, had looked with astonishment at the array of faces, and then looked away, suddenly reluctant to examine them. He didn’t want to feel any more familiarity with Schmidt, didn’t want to get to know the younger self. He glanced up, somewhat guiltily, as Ruth entered the lab – he could tell by her expression that she was looking for him.

She was elegantly dressed for the upcoming evening, her outfit glittering with blue and green beads and spangles, the fading bruises and marks on her face almost entirely hidden under carefully applied make-up. She’d been out of the hospital for three days now. She was still using a cane – the one she carried tonight had an inlaid ebony shaft and a faceted crystal knob for a handle – but she walked lightly enough that she almost seemed not to need it at all, except to emphasise her presence.

She was leaning on it heavily now, as she stared at the sketches of Schmidt.

“Dear God,” she breathed again. Rafé had bolted to his feet and found a chair, and Ruth sank into it, still staring at the collage of faces. “Yes . . . I remember him. He was with the SS in France – he was Bandenbekämpfer.”

“A ‘bandit hunter’?” Stephanie looked bewildered.

Ruth’s mouth twitched. “How many years of German did you take at that prep school of yours?”

Stephanie suddenly looked embarrassed instead “Only two – but I heard a lot of it growing up. My parents think Wagner’s, like, totally cool. By the time I actually studied German, I kind of felt like I already knew it.” She leaned in towards Ruth. “So what’s it really mean? Why ‘bandits’?”

“Bandenbekämpfung was the SS mandate to crush local resistance to Nazi occupation. By any means necessary – and you know what that can mean.” She caught MacGyver’s eye, and he caught the twitch in her face. “They were actually anti-partisan, but that whole part of the Nazi scheme was dubbed the ‘anti-bandit’ forces.”

“But . . . ” Stephanie’s hand, apparently moving independently, doodled a masked figure waving a toy sword. “ ‘Bandits’?”

“The Nazis called guerilla fighters ‘bandits’ ,” Ruth replied gently. “More or less the way many governments today call all their opponents ‘terrorists’ or ‘insurgents’. It denies the opponents the dignity of having an actual position, or any right to resist.”

Addie had spent most of the last few hours doing half-hearted work cleaning a Biblical scene by Tintoretto, with frequent breaks to see how Stephanie and Rafé were doing. Now she broke in. “So what went down with old Creepy-Eyes Schmidt anyway – whatcha remember?”

Ruth stood up again and turned towards her, but her face was suddenly stony. “If you don’t mind, I’d sooner keep the details to myself. It’s bad enough that I’ve remembered them; I see no reason to share the nightmare.”

An awkward silence followed this remark. Stephanie looked down at her wandering pen; Rafé looked desperately at MacGyver; Mac chewed his lip, studying Ruth’s face.

In the sudden quiet, Addie simply walked up to the old woman, flung her arms around her and hugged her, somehow managing to be fierce and gentle at the same time. Mac retrieved the cane from Ruth’s hand to leave her free to return the embrace. Addie bowed her head over Ruth, her hair, dead-black where it wasn’t streaked with magenta, falling in a curtain to screen Ruth’s face so no-one could see the tears raining down.

After a long, quiet moment, Ruth drew a very deep breath and deliberately stepped away from the girl. “Enough now, child. If I ruin my makeup it will take ages to repair, and it’s no use to me to frighten the horses. Or the donors, which matters a great deal more to me.” She reached up and rumpled Addie’s already wild hair. “Come see me in San Francisco while you’re still in the States, my dear. There are some parts of the city that I think you’ll like very much.”

She turned to Mac, looking from him to the computer screen. “Any luck? You’ve had your head in those files for what, five days now?”

“What the f*ck you lookin’ for anyways?” Addie asked. “You ain’t ‘ardly budged for hours.”

“Outliers.” Mac handed Ruth the cane again and looked at the screen as if it might still cough up an answer. On the dark screen, the blocky white letters glowed feebly, as if the fruitless search had exhausted them too. “You remember Frau had her own scoring system? I’ve been running search patterns – looking for people with very high or very low scores, or a wide spread, or no scores at all. Willis is doing cross-checks – he’s more, umm . . . ” Mac gestured vaguely.

“Methodical,” Ruth supplied. “And he doesn’t get bored easily.”

Mac gave her a sour look. Ruth patted his hand. “MacGyver, you’re not going to find the Professor if he isn’t there to be found.”

“I know! But if I keep lookin’, maybe I’ll find something . . . ”

“Whaddya mean?” Addie burst out. “ ’e’s gotta be there!”

Mac shook his head decisively. “I don’t think the Professor was ever in Frau’s files.”

“But the ol’ bat musta known ‘im – ol’ Creepy-Eyes – ” Addie gestured towards the sketches littered on the table – “ ‘e said the Prof tried to sell her the paintings!”

“Yeah, I know! And I can’t explain it!” Mac ran a hand through his already tangled hair. “But Ryan only tried to erase two names – his own grandfather, and his grampa’s buddy Hunter. He didn’t even try for a third name. Why not? Why wouldn’t the Professor have tried to get his own name wiped?”

Ruth nodded. “It makes sense only if his name wasn’t there to be removed in the first place . . . in which case, the question is, why wasn’t it?”

“That’s right. Either that, or it’s in here, somewhere, and he doesn’t know it, and I haven’t found it.”

“Well, it’s high time you gave it a rest. And it’s getting late. You did remember that the auction is tonight?” She surveyed MacGyver, taking in his scruffy jeans and T-shirt, battered sneakers and leather jacket. “I trust you have a change of clothes somewhere to hand?”

Rafé looked confused, but Stephanie suddenly brightened. “That’s right! It’s your big fund-raiser – the one for the children’s hospital.” Her face fell again, just as quickly. “My parents are going to be there.”

Rafé looked at her with quiet resignation. “They gonna want to see you.”

Stephanie winced, and Rafé took her hand. “Hey, you can’t blame them. I like lookin’ at you myself.”

She looked at him desperately. “They really aren’t going to like seeing you, though . . . ”

Rafé grinned, an easy crooked grin. “Baby, I don’ think I been invited. An’ that’s all right with me. For now. We can worry ‘bout invitations some other time. Okay?”

Stephanie looked mutinous, but Ruth bent over her and spoke confidentially. “Choose your fights, dear. And your ground. Right now, I’d recommend blandishment. Tell your parents all about the amazingly important people you’ve met here.”

The girl gave her an impatient look. “Like who? Other than you?”

“Oh, me for certain. Feel free to tell them you have me twisted round your delicate finger – your father will gloat over that notion. Other than that – the German consul general will be there, or I’ll know the reason why – I’ll make sure I introduce you right off the bat. Anjali Prajna, believe it or not, is both highly regarded in legal circles and well-connected socially. And, of course, we have some internationally famous art experts right here in the lab. And Pete is frightfully important.”

“What about MacGyver? Is he coming?”

Ruth gave Stephanie and the other interns a knowing look. “He is indeed. And now we come to the critical issue. I trust you three did sign your confidentiality pledges before you started work here?”

Two blank expressions, and a firm nod of assent from Stephanie.

“Good. Because the sight of MacGyver in a suit and tie is a rare vision, vouchsafed to few. And we can’t risk the damage to his reputation that might ensue from a careless remark . . . ”

“Oh, stop,” Mac growled as he headed out of the lab for the showers.


When he returned half an hour later, showered, combed, dressed up and disgruntled, he saw the astonishment on the interns’ faces. Laura had arrived, also dressed for the evening; she smiled at MacGyver with approval. Mac’s eyes lit up when he saw her, and then his cheeks flushed with embarrassment – she was wearing something white and gold and sleek and elegant, which made his slapdash efforts at fancy dress seem sloppy and half-hearted. Still, it would have to do.

Ruth fixed him with a beady eye, but he met her look steadily.

“You remembered a jacket and a clean shirt, and neglected to bring a tie?”

Mac stuck his thumbs in the front pockets of his dress trousers and slanted a grin at her. “I kinda had a hunch you’d provide one again.”

Ruth’s face twitched, and she broke into a broad smile as Stephanie and Addie dissolved into giggles. “Touché. Laura, my dear, do please tell me you found time to do my shopping . . . ah, thank you.” Laura handed her a slim box stamped in gold with the logo of a high-end boutique. “They still aren’t letting me run loose.”

Laura pretended to consult an invisible calendar. “You can hardly blame them, Ruth. I don’t have room in my schedule for another hairbreadth rescue. Mac, how about you?”

Mac shrugged. “You kidding? I might mess up Ruth’s new tie.”

This time, when MacGyver flipped open the box, he raised an eyebrow at the brilliant, glowing colours, just short of garish. He lifted the tie out of its nest of tissue paper and held it up, his fingers running along the fine, smooth silk of the fabric.

“Wow.” In spite of himself, he grinned. “Van Gogh again.”

Laura looked at Ruth resignedly. “Damn you. He recognised it right away.”

Ruth beamed. “Pay up.” Laura handed her a quarter.

Mac looked chagrined. “That’s all it was worth?”

Ruth shrugged. “Well, I really didn’t want to take poor Laura to the cleaners – ”

“Ha!” Laura snorted.

“ – and I already had to pay off Gordie.”

“You ‘ad a flutter with me dad?” Addie asked.

“We had a bet on his forgery of the Rembrandt,” Ruth said with a melodramatic sigh. “I honestly didn’t think he could really tell, under all the discolouration, what the portrait actually looked like. Now that he’s finally had time to clean the original . . . well, all I can say is, I knew he was brilliant, but I am well and truly in awe of his talents. Extraordinary.”

Rafé was frowning as he watched MacGyver don the tie. “I don’ get it, Mac. You already got some of the ugliest shirts I ever seen, but – sunflowers?”

“It’s from a Van Gogh painting.” Mac glanced up at Ruth. “More propaganda, right?”

“Not exactly . . . ” Ruth replied. “Call it a concession to my mood. I re-read Wiesenthal’s The Sunflower while I was recovering, and I couldn’t resist.”

“Isn’t that the one he wrote about being in a concentration camp?” Stephanie asked.

“Yes – it explores the nature of forgiveness. I found I rather needed the perspective.”

Rafé still looked perplexed. “I don’ get it.”

“The Nazi soldiers had sunflowers planted on their graves.” Stephanie’s face was serious, but her eyes glowed with intensity. “Wiesenthal thought he was going to die, and there wouldn’t be any sunflowers for him. But he survived.”

“And lived to go chase Nazis,” Ruth concluded. “And he’s done a damned good job of it, too.”

“Not that anyone at this event will be thinking of Nazis – ” Laura began.

“Don’t count on it,” said Ruth drily. “The key donor for the new wing is Joseph Goldman. He’s on the short list for the Phoenix board of directors – and his uncle’s a survivor too. He’s been very interested in the art project from the beginning. That’s why poor MacGyver is suffering the indignity of yet another fancy-dress event: Goldman specifically asked for him to be there.”

Mac grimaced.





They had hardly arrived before Ruth was buttonholed and whisked away by Erich Hartmann, the German consul general. Mac wandered through the overdressed, chattering crowd, his hands in his pockets, feeling oddly isolated as he studied the partygoers. It was a more eclectic gathering than the art show up in San Francisco had been, and somehow a more cheerful group; the smiles seemed warmer and the fragments of overheard conversation less superficial.

He spotted Stephanie with her parents, dressed more Bohemian than preppy; there was a visible veneer of annoyance on her father’s face. As expected, Rafé was nowhere in sight, but to Mac’s surprise Addie was trailing along behind. She was dressed much more sedately than usual – although to Mac’s inexperienced eye, she still looked as if she’d assembled her outfit at random, in the dark, with her eyes closed. She’d merely used a better grab bag this time.

Mac strolled into another section of the grand suite of rooms where the event was being hosted, and stopped short at the now familiar sight of a row of framed paintings on easels. Laura was standing next to a Caravaggio, talking animatedly to a tall, thin black man in a tuxedo and a heavyset black woman in a wildly floral dress with an elaborate hat.

Beside her, like an old and dear friend met in the most unexpected place, was Sam Bolinski’s Rubens landscape. The painting had been cleaned as well as repaired, and glowed with colour and life; MacGyver’s eyes followed the lines of the receding vista, lured beyond the crest of the serene hills. Beyond the hills lay – what? Mac understood how Sam had been drawn into it as a child, how a small and imaginative boy could have fallen so deeply in love with a painted landscape.

As he studied the painting, a sudden recognition hit him. He’d been there. The painting showed the wooded hills of the Zoomse en Kalmthoutse Heide, a vast wild nature preserve near the Netherlands border. Eight years back, he’d been kicking his heels in Antwerp, waiting for word to head out on a courier job for the DXS; after getting thoroughly bored with the city, he’d hopped a bus and gone north to spend a long day rambling around the preserve, soaking up the timeless peace and beauty of the landscape.

Three hundred and fifty years since someone saw the same hills, and painted them. And here they are.

More or less; the painting didn’t exactly show the actual hills. It showed a dream of them, or a memory, somehow clear and distinct and yet elusive, a memory too precious to lose but too remote to be grasped tightly. Nothing in particular had happened that day, and he’d forgotten all about it – and yet the memory had surfaced, bright and shimmering, as he looked at the painting.

“MacGyver?” Laura was speaking to him. He blinked. She smiled her warm smile.

Mac shook his head to clear it. “I don’t get it.” He gestured at the row of paintings. “Do these fancy-dress events always include an art show?”

Laura laughed. “Of course not.”

“Every one I’ve been at has.”

“All both of them?”

“Well . . . ”

“You’ve had your head buried in those damned computer files for too long. I don’t think you’ve actually heard anything that anyone’s said to you in the last three days.”

“I’ve been kinda preoccupied . . . ”

“I figured that out – you were supposed to come get me for dinner at seven last night.”

“I was?” Mac looked stricken. “Aw, man, you’re right . . . I was . . . Hey, wait a minute – you were workin’ in the art lab at least as late as I was! You were there at Phoenix too, all the time!”

“Not quite. I did finally notice the time at about eight o’clock or so.” Laura quirked a smile at him. “If you think back carefully, you might remember a sandwich materialising on your desk about then. I hope it was okay – it was from that little deli – ”

“Yeah, the one over on Wilshire Boulevard – I can always recognise their sandwiches. They grow their own sprouts.” Mac grinned sheepishly. “Thanks. I’ll make it up to you.”

“You better.” Laura glanced around to see if anyone was watching, and gave him a quick kiss that ended up not quick at all.

After they’d come up for air, Mac gestured towards the pictures. “So what’s the deal? Why’d they put on an art exhibit for a kids’ hospital?”

“Oh, Ruth’s pulling strings again.”

“Wow. What a surprise.” MacGyver peered at the paintings. There were only a dozen on display, a mixture of Old Masters and some newer works. “Anything to do with Goldman?”

“Good guess! Yes – most of the donated items tonight are in the silent auction, but there’s always a handful of really choice offerings for the live auction. This is one of them.” Laura gestured towards a Cézanne still life. The riotous, glowing colours of the ripe fruits in the bowl made MacGyver’s tie look tame. “It’s from Joseph Goldman’s personal collection, although just between you and me, it’s not much compared with the rest of his stash. But most of those are going to be willed to assorted museums anyway.”

“What about the rest of it? What’s Sam’s painting doing here?”

“The Cézanne belonged to Joseph’s uncle, the one who survived Dachau. It was recovered after the war by the Monuments Men and restored to him.” She waved a hand at the other artworks. “Everything here has a similar story – Ruth and Joseph have been plotting this for weeks, tracking down suitable works and twisting the appropriate arms to allow them to be exhibited together.”

“She’s tryin’ to lure more heirs out of the woodwork.”

“Not just that – she’s also fishing for donors to keep funding the Phoenix art project. Douglas Carmichael is probably going to back away, since we haven’t brainwashed Stephanie into giving up the creative life. On the other hand, Steffie turns out to have a charmingly eccentric great-uncle who’s probably going to become a donor just to annoy Doug.” Laura cocked her head. “Mac, your eyes are glazing. Would you like some more art history instead?”

Mac raised a sheepish eyebrow. “If it gets real bad, I can always fall back on talking about hockey.”

“Oh, now you’re being cruel.”

They were interrupted by the sound of Ruth clearing her throat ostentatiously.

“I do hate to intrude – but the live auction will be starting shortly, and the auctioneer is looking for you, Laura. He wants to pick your brain for any additional juicy bits he can use to seduce the bidders into greater flights of charitable extravagance.”

“At least it’s for a good cause,” Laura laughed.

“That, my dear, is the watchword of the day. You may expect to hear it at least half a dozen times for every item.” As Laura left, Ruth turned to MacGyver. “And I have to go inspect the silent auction – any item that sparks real interest has to get pulled for the live auction. And Gregory goes all mother-hennish if he sees me pick up anything heavier than a teacup. Would you be good enough to fetch and carry for me? It’s for a good cause.” She smiled wickedly.



In a side room, the items for the silent auction had been arranged on several long tables, draped in white linen. Mac raised an eyebrow at the figures that had been scrawled on the bidding sheets by each offering; the amounts of money being so casually mentioned still seemed obscene.

“I don’t get it. Who needs this stuff?”

“Nobody.” Ruth’s reply was tart, but good-natured. “Good lord, if it had anything to do with needs, we’d never get any money raised at all. Bear in mind that the people here have far more than they need in the first place, and most of them have never had the chance to find out how little they actually need anyway.” She leaned on her cane and picked up the bid sheet in front of a basket of lotions and sachets, studying it with a frown. “The only need that matters tonight is their need to feel that they’re doing something positive. That, at least, is a genuine need.” She glanced at Mac’s face and laughed. “You may go ahead and suspect me of any amount of devious behind-the-scenes manipulation in this matter. You’ll be quite correct.”

“Just tell me that Phoenix doesn’t get its funding this way, okay?”

“Good lord, no. This is pocket change compared to what it takes to keep the lights on at home.” Ruth picked up a bottle of exotic wine, a brochure for a tropical resort , and a jewel case that held a glittering bracelet, and handed them to Mac. “The biggest trouble is funding our, shall we say, more sensitive activities. Financial transparency is admirable, but not for clandestine operations.”

Mac followed her out to the main hall, where Laura was deep in conversation with the auctioneer, a stout, jovial man in a tux whose bow tie seemed permanently askew. Ruth caught the man’s eye and gestured towards the table where MacGyver was depositing his haul. When Mac met her eyes again, he saw a look of unexpected sympathy.

“MacGyver, I’m so sorry . . . I’ve been treating you rather shabbily, haven’t I? I don’t think I realised just how much it bothers you. It isn’t just the fancy dress and the stuffy formality, is it? It’s the money.”

Mac shrugged. “I guess someone’s got to look after it.”

“Like the plumbing? You’re glad it’s there, but you don’t like dealing with it yourself? You wouldn’t want to have to crawl around in the sewers . . . ”

“Well, actually, I have . . . ”

Ruth winced. “I should have guessed. Bad example.” She sighed. “Money has its own chemistry and its own biological imperative. Money breeds money and feeds on money. It’s as amoral as moss.” She turned away from the table where she had been arranging the auction items, meeting Mac’s eyes steadily even though she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. “You think it’s a toxin, don’t you? It’s a resource.”

“Maybe for you. For most folks, it seems to do more damage than anything else.”

Ruth tilted an eyebrow. “I understand you can make a bomb out of fertiliser.”

Mac let out his breath in an exasperated puff of air and lifted his hands. “Yeah, okay. You got me. But it sure seems to be poisonous to most people. I guess there are a few specialists – like you, for instance – who’re immune.”

“Oh, lord, not immune. Don’t ever assume that.” Ruth shook her head. “Resistant at best. You, MacGyver, are the only person I’ve ever met with a genuine immunity.”

Mac shrugged, feeling profoundly embarrassed. He grasped at an excuse to change the subject.

“Ruth, can I ask you something? Old history?”

She looked at him warily. “As long as you promise that ‘old history’ will mean something of more respectable vintage than the sixties.”

“Why’d you join the Resistance?” Ruth looked startled, and he pressed on. “It’s not in your file. Your parents got away from France after the Nazis invaded . . . and you stayed. It must’ve been your own decision, or you’d’ve gone with them. Why?”

“Can’t you guess?” Ruth said softly. She looked embarrassed in turn. “I had fallen in love, MacGyver – with a fine, handsome, brave partisan from Toulon. So I stayed, thinking we’d win the war together, liberate France and live happily ever after. Five months later, I was a widow with a personal vendetta.” She snorted. “It makes the whole business of the honours and the medals rather hard to take. Étienne’s death was brave, but it was also stupid. We were all young and brave and stupid back then. I was a quick study at espionage, but very slow at learning not to hate.”

She looked up suddenly over Mac’s shoulder, and he saw her expression shift as a veil of anxious concern dimmed her eyes. He half-turned to see Henry Collins approaching, Gregory following close behind him. Henry was carrying a small plate with a collection of desserts and pastries from the buffet table. He held the plate out to Ruth, his face breaking into a broad smile. “My dear, I don’t think you’ve had the chance to sample the offerings . . . quite a lavish display, I must say.”

Ruth took the plate, her face softening. “Henry, you remembered . . . ”

Henry suddenly seemed to notice Mac standing next to Ruth, and turned to him. Mac’s hackles rose. There was something uncertain, almost flat, in the old man’s eyes. MacGyver had seen that vagueness before, off and on over the last few years, but it had never been this marked.

Henry held out a hand. “Um – my dear fellow! I haven’t seen you in – how long has it been? Far too long.”

What the heck . . . only a week ago, you were asking me to keep Ruth safe! Mac shook the hand automatically and tried to think of something to say.

Ruth tugged gently at Henry’s arm. “Not to interrupt, dear, but Erich Hartmann’s been trying to get your attention for the last half-hour. We can talk to Mr. MacGyver later.” She placed an odd emphasis on the name. Mac met her eyes for a moment as they turned away, and he clearly saw the anguish in them, although he still didn’t quite understand.

Gregory had lingered; Mac turned a questioning face to him. “I don’t get it – doesn’t he . . . ”

“Doesn’t he remember anything that happened in the last week? Probably not. This is one of his bad days . . . he’s had several in a row, to tell the truth. He went through a very bad patch when Mrs. Collins went missing. I didn’t dare leave him . . . which is why I could not join you on your trip into the mountains.” Gregory cleared his throat, and a shadow passed over his normally impassive face. “That’s why Mr. Collins hasn’t been making public appearances lately, you see. And why Ruth has been staying close to home.”

“You’re slippin’, Gregory. You just called her ‘Ruth’ instead of ‘Mrs. Collins’.” MacGyver watched as Ruth guided Henry gently through the milling crowd of overdressed, jabbering, superficially cheerful people. “It’s Alzheimer’s, isn’t it?”

“Very likely.”

“You mean you don’t know?”

Gregory cleared his throat again. “There is only one reliable method for diagnosing that particular disease, Mr. MacGyver, and it can only be performed when the brain is autopsied.” Mac saw the pain in the man’s eyes and suddenly realised that he was not much younger than Ruth and Henry.

“In some areas, his mind is as sharp as it’s always been – he’s still a champion at trivia games, as long as we stay away from current events. And he still remembers who Ruth is, and myself. And Mr. Thornton.” Gregory smiled gently. “He usually remembers who you are, and he’s only known you for a few years. That won’t last, I’m afraid. Generally, it’s the newer memories that go first.”

Mac recalled his last meeting with Henry Collins, after Ruth had been moved to the hospital in LA. Gregory had made a point of reminding Henry, on Mac’s arrival, of who he was and why he was there. “And the real new stuff never sinks in at all?”

“Particularly not when some stress or distress occurs to drive it out again.”

“Like Ruth almost getting herself killed.”

“Exactly. That was . . . extremely stressful.”

Across the room, Ruth was speaking to Hartmann and Dieter von Schüssel, her face and gestures animated; beside her, Henry was nodding amiably, a bland smile fixed on his face. Mac closed his eyes as the pain washed over him.

As the auction started, MacGyver fought the impulse to slip away. The elegantly dressed crowd looked much the same as at the art auction where Sam Bolinski’s stolen painting had come to light, but the event itself was dramatically different. There was no sedate raising of paddles or discreet nodding of heads here; the auctioneer harangued and enticed, cajoled and wheedled, teased and joked at the bidders’ expense, often setting one against another. As Ruth had predicted, the ‘good cause’ was mentioned constantly; and the attendees who weren’t bidding alternated between laughter and cheers as the tallies mounted.

After a few minutes, Laura came over to join him. She studied his face with concern. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

She nodded, obviously lost in her own thoughts. “MacGyver, it’s the funniest thing. I was just talking to Erich Hartmann – you know, the German consul?”

“Yeah . . . ?”

“I asked him whether Dieter – Dr. von Schüssel – had heard anything more about repatriating the Rembrandt, and Erich didn’t seem to remember ever having known about it.”

Mac grinned. “Maybe ‘Oldy-Moldy Buckethead’ doesn’t translate into German too well.”

Laura gave him an exasperated look. “You remember – Dieter was liaising with the Kaiser Friedrich Museum in Berlin. I’d expected to hear back before now; you’d think they’d be in seventh heaven about it.”

“Huh.” Mac scowled. Over beside the row of paintings on display, he saw Henry talking to Gregory and Pete, and wondered if Pete was going through the same wave of shock that had hit Mac a few minutes before. “I don’t see Ruth – but maybe she knows something about it . . . ”

Mac threaded his way through the crowd until he reached Henry. “Mr. Collins, where’s Ruth got herself to? I thought she was right here.”

“She went off to talk with Dieter Schulmeister.”

“Who?”

Henry was shaking his head ruefully, a sharp gleam in his eyes. There was no sign of vagueness now. “Can’t believe that sly old fox is still running around loose. After all these years . . . I dare say she’s going to take him to task to help her identify some of those stolen pictures – did you know she’s been working on that? Quite the project.”

Schulmeister . . .

I used to teach art history at the University of Leipzig.

Dizzying horror washed through MacGyver, and he felt the world shudder and fracture around him.

“Oh my god – the Professor – it’s Dieter!!!”



Mac darted from room to room, searching frantically. There was no sign of the tall man with the smoothly groomed mane of white hair, no sign of Ruth’s tiny, frail form.

As he poked his head into the room where the silent auction had been set up, he could hear the loud, cheerful voice of the auctioneer behind him, the rising cadences reaching a new pitch of excitement over the latest prize. Everyone was in the main room, focused on the live auction; it was perfect cover, a complete distraction. No-one would notice anything that happened anywhere else while the auctioneer held them mesmerised.

MacGyver glanced around the room where the tables of gewgaws were laid out for the silent auction, each with its sheet of paper for bids. At the end of one table, the bid sheet in front of a small bronze sculpture had slipped to the floor. Or it got knocked off . . . Mac hurried over, reached down to pick up the paper, forgot the paper in the same moment as his eye caught the sparkle on the floor in front of the emergency exit.

A few shards of glass lay there – in a pattern that indicated the originating point of the scatter had been on the other side of the door. There was a rainbow glint to those sparks of refracted light.

It’s crystal.

Mac set his fingers against the exit door and pushed gently. It gave under the pressure – it hadn’t been fully latched. But no blare of sound came as the door seal was broken. The alarm’s been shut off . . .

Inside, the plush carpet and creamy stippled walls gave way to bare, utilitarian concrete where an exit stairway plunged down towards the parking garage.

Ruth’s cane lay on the bare concrete floor of the landing, the shaft cracked and the crystal knob shattered.



The parking garage was filled with rows of the glossy, new, expensive cars belonging to the wealthy donors at the auction upstairs. Mac had kicked off his dress shoes before he plunged down the exit stairs, fearing the clatter the hard soles would make on the concrete, wishing for tennis shoes instead. Now he darted, noiseless in sock feet, from one car to another.

He spotted Dieter almost immediately, far down one row of cars and closer to the exit ramp than he would have liked. The tall, white-haired form was bent over the open trunk of one of the cars. Mac couldn’t see Ruth, and his vision tinged with a red haze of panicked fury when he caught a flash of peacock sparkle and realised Dieter was loading something into his trunk.

Mac didn’t know if the man was armed, but it seemed likely. And he was too far away for Mac to have any certainty of reaching him before he had a chance to jump into the car and get away. Once in the driver’s seat, there’d be no stopping him.

Chafing at even a moment’s delay, Mac crouched behind one of the cars, yanked off the tie Ruth had given him, and fished out his knife, quickly slipping the narrow end of the tie through the keyring on the knife and knotting it. When he peeked out again, Dieter was still bent over the trunk.

Mac stood up, whirling his makeshift bola over his head and letting it fly. Even as it left his hand, he was darting forward and off to the side, closing the distance at full pelt. His aim was off; instead of hitting Dieter, the folded knife cracked into the rear windshield of the next car in line, starring the glass and setting off the car alarm. The garage echoed with the electronic whoop and hoot.

Be nice if security would come check it out . . . but this is LA.

No security guards appeared. Mac glanced out from behind a Cadillac to see where Dieter was, and ducked down again just as quickly. The gun in the man’s hand was clearly visible as he swung to face MacGyver.

“Give it up, Dieter!” Mac yelled. “You’re blown!”

“Herr MacGyver, is it?” Mac didn’t like the note of smug complacency in the man’s voice. He’s not gonna hesitate to get rid of two witnesses instead of just one. Mac’s mind shied away from the thought that it might be too late.

“So I should surrender now, after so many years? But I see only you here – and I think you are the one who is known for going off on your own, yes? Half-cocked, I think you call it.” Dieter’s voice carried clearly over the sound of the alarm, the words crisply spoken in spite of the accent. “I have a pistol pointed at Ruth’s head. Step out from behind that car and walk over here with your hands up, or I’ll pull the trigger.”

Wild, insane relief blazed through MacGyver like a shaft of sunlight breaking through clouds. Not dead . . . he hasn’t killed her yet . . . unless he’s lying . . .

Mac stood up and walked towards Dieter, his hands raised, feeling his feet in their socks sting as he stepped on the glass shards from the cracked car window. He hardly noticed; beyond Dieter, he could see Ruth’s crumpled form lying where he had tumbled her into the trunk. Dieter had one hand clenched in the spangled fabric of Ruth’s jacket, holding onto his hostage as he pointed his gun at Mac.

MacGyver quirked an eyebrow at him. “So you’re the Professor, huh?” He indicated Ruth with his chin. “You know, if she hit you up for one too many donations, all you had to do was say no.”

Dieter glared. “Oh, very funny.”

“Naw, not really. You’re not laughing.” Mac took a step forward, trying to edge closer, but balked when Dieter lifted the gun fractionally. “You were behind all the murder attempts, weren’t you? You were right there at the show in San Francisco – no problem to slip down to the garage and mess with the brakes on the Mustang. And Cody wasn’t the only skinhead you got in your back pocket; easy enough to get one to attack her – ” Mac’s dark eyes burned into Dieter’s pale ones. His voice turned raw. “Why??”

“I thought you were supposed to be the clever one.” The man’s eyes burned, pale blue fire like a blowtorch. “I had no idea she was still alive – she was Ruth Gascoigne then. I hadn’t seen her for years, decades, not until that damned art exhibition. And there they were, hanging medals around her neck. Sooner or later, she would have recognised me, and it would have been all over – you have no idea how notorious she was, back then. They say she never forgot – or forgave – anyone.”

Mac looked past Dieter to where Ruth lay. He saw her face was streaked with blood, matted dark in her silver hair. And he saw the glint from her eyes under almost-closed lids. She was alive – and awake, and watching. Waiting.

“Do you think it’s been easy?” Dieter demanded. “Half of Europe went insane after the war. No-one was safe from retribution! Even now, still – I thought the diplomatic posting would be safe – California is halfway round the world! And then that damned Brandenburg b*tch turned up, right here . . . ”

Mac kept his gaze focused on the gun, but he was watching Ruth in his peripheral vision as she reached up to the interior handle on the underside of the trunk lid.

“Your buddy Schmidt said you tried to sell his paintings to her – and I guess she turned around and blackmailed both of you, huh?”

Dieter’s face went black, and he spat. His fingers clenched on the gun in his hand.

“So you had Schmidt shot too, just to keep things tidy?” Mac asked. He tried lowering his hands slightly, but brought them back up when Dieter made a meaningful movement with the gun. He continued, his voice steady and even, a ghost of a smirk on his face. “And then you made off with the fake Rembrandt – you did notice that we dumped a forgery on you, right?”

Dieter’s shock was a physical thing, a ripple that ran through him like an earth tremor. Mac dived sideways and ducked around the Mercedes beside him as Ruth grasped the interior handle firmly and slammed the trunk lid down on Dieter’s left arm.

How much of Dieter’s scream was physical pain, and how much was blind rage, was unguessable. The gun went off, the unaimed shot shattering another car window; a second set of ululations joined the first as another car alarm went off.

Howling with rage and pain, Dieter looked around wildly, then raised the gun and aimed at the closed trunk of his own car. From out of nowhere came a bright-coloured flash of fabric that wrapped itself around his right arm, pulling his hand sideways and spoiling his shot. MacGyver had found where his necktie had landed, with the folded knife still tied to the end. The knife was a good enough counterweight to give ample momentum to the spinning line.

There was no friction to the silk fabric of the tie, and it unwrapped itself from Dieter’s arm almost as swiftly as it had wrapped, but the moment was enough. Mac leaped out and closed with Dieter, grabbing the man’s right hand, slamming it against the side of the car. He thought he felt bones crack as the gun dropped to the concrete underfoot.

Dieter lashed out with his left hand and connected, and Mac tasted blood in his own mouth, coppery and warm. He was still holding the tie by its wide end, the knife dangling on the other; he shifted his feet, drew back slightly, grabbed both ends of the band of fabric and dived on the other man, wrapping the tie around his neck.

Both men rolled on the hard pavement. Mac briefly found himself on his back, with Dieter’s weight on top, but he had a solid hold on the necktie and was steadily drawing it tighter, the muscles of his arms and shoulders bunching, his teeth locked in a grimace of rage. The old man toppled sideways as Mac brought more pressure to bear.

Dieter gave up clawing for his fallen gun and brought his hands up to his throat, trying to protect himself. He managed to slip his fingers between his neck and the tightening garrote, but he was no match for Mac’s strength and fury; instead, he found that his bony fingers were being pressed into his own windpipe, making deep dents in his own throat.

Through a scarlet haze, Mac watched the face begin to darken and the pale eyes bulge. He could see his own hands, the fingers knotted around the strip of bright fabric, the orange and yellow sunflowers glowing even in the shadows of the poorly lit garage. He seemed to be split in two, somehow separate from himself as he crouched over the choking man. He felt as if he himself had stopped breathing.

Mac reached out across an impossible distance and loosened his grasp, letting his fingers fall away from the garrote. He stood up and looked down at the old man.

Dieter lay gasping, semiconscious, staring up at the flickering lights overhead. He had clawed at his own neck in his agony, and streaks of blood from his own fingernails mottled his skin and stained the bright flowers on MacGyver’s tie.

The trunk had locked shut, and Mac had to dig through Dieter’s pockets for the keys to open it. When he threw the lid open, Ruth winced at the sudden glare of light, but still managed to smile up at him.

“MacGyver, you’re hurt . . . ” She reached out, her gnarled fingers brushing his split lip.

Mac folded her in his arms, unable to speak. He could feel her heart beating, still strong and vibrant.

Special thanks and appreciation go to Astra, for still more help with German grammar, and Trix, who told me about the Heide (and actually sent pictures!) And Glenn, who lent me a tie so I could test the latest MacGyverism. (I provided my own SAK.)

The story isn't done yet: epilogue still to follow.

WOW!! What an exciting chapter! ((((Ruth & Mac))))

Your imagery is so crisp, your story so rich! *sigh* Marvelous!

I can't wait for the epilogue... you know I love 'em!

exciting read.

Rich and crispy, Lothi? And yet low-fat and free of calories.

Hang in there; the chocolate sauce is still on its way.

Stays crunchy even with milk!

lol

Finally I found enough time to sit down and read this chapter. Loth is right, it is so rich, so full of things. Still quite interesting to learn about my own history from you.

Then there was fun and giggeling with exasperated Mac and the dressing up - I just love the banter between him and Ruth! If she was a couple of years younger, they also would make a nice couplé. But of course there also is Laura. Loved the thing with the sandwich!

And then the ending. Furious Mac. We don't get to see that very often. So yeah, it was like a roller-coaster, and I espicially liked the Alzheimer thing. It adds so many more layers to the story - plus we got another art description by Mac!

I'm glad you enjoyed it, Astra!

When I was first getting started on it, Lothi and I had a discussion about Dark!Mac, which got me to thinking just how much it would take to really push him over certain edges.

I ended up not doing a lot of physical whumpage in this story (yes, I know, you were probably disappointed), although I made the most of what fitted in. But most of it was psychological and emotional rather than physical, and I had to build it up in careful increments. There were some stretches that were a real challenge to write -- and some times when my research whumped me.

As for Ruth -- I'm glad you like her; I have come to love her dearly myself. But c'mon, she'd have to be about fifty years younger to be with Mac! (And if she were, I'm not sure he could keep up with her . . . )