Harry watched Colette come through the gate. He’d been thinking about her, but seeing her had an effect on him. She was looking around, saw him and ran over, kissed him and they put their arms around each other, standing there, the exiting passengers moving around them.
They drove down the coast, checked in a motel on the ocean called the Ebb Tide. It had twelve efficiency apartments, a pool, private beach, and it was right near the inlet where the fishing boats came in.
When they got to the room, Colette showed him her article, six pages in Der Spiegel, featuring current photos of Hess and his bodyguard, Hess at the Blackshirt rally, and sepia-tone photos of Hess in his Nazi uniform, posing in front of the mass grave. The article read like a suspense thriller. He finished it and looked at her. “This is amazing,” Harry said. “Shooting Hess’ bodyguard with your father’s military sidearm. You couldn’t make that up.”
“It was self-defense and I still feel bad about it.”
“Of course you do,” Harry said. “You’re a good person. How’s your mother?”
“She was in shock.”
“I can imagine. Must’ve scared the hell out of her.”
“But she’s fine now, hiking in the mountains again.”
“I was surprised you didn’t mention Hess’ souvenirs.”
“We know he was a serial killer, but we can’t prove it. My editor wouldn’t allow it.”
“My favorite part, of course, is the daring escape by an eye-witness survivor who is prepared to come forward to help prosecute Hess.”
“I thought you’d like that.” Colette sat on the bed. “Here’s the strange thing, Harry. The article appeared a few days ago and Hess has disappeared. Reporters converged on his estate in Schleissheim and his Munich apartment. His wife and daughter claim they have no idea where he is.”
“You believe them?”
“I do. I think he’s left the country. Gone into hiding.”
“You’re probably right.” Harry didn’t tell her what really happened. That Hess was dead. At least Harry hoped he was.