Killing icarus, p.1
Killing Icarus, page 1
KILLING ICARUS
PAUL KEMPRECOS
SUSPENSE PUBLISHING.
KILLING ICARUS
by
Paul Kemprecos
DIGITAL EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Suspense Publishing
Paul Kemprecos
COPYRIGHT
2021 Paul Kemprecos
PUBLISHING HISTORY:
Suspense Publishing, Paperback and Digital Copy, July, 2021
Cover Design: Shannon Raab
Cover Photographer: Shutterstock.com/ mw2st (Gull)
Cover Photographer: Shutterstock.com/ nednapa (Dirt Background)
Cover Photographer: Shutterstock.com/ xpixel (Dirt)
ISBN: 978-0-578-87681-8
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
BOOKS & SHORT
STORIES
NUMA FILES
(co-authored with Clive Cussler)
SERPENT (#1)
BLUE GOLD (#2)
FIRE ICE (#3)
WHITE DEATH (#4)
LOST CITY (#5)
POLAR SHIFT (#6)
THE NAVIGATOR (#7)
MEDUSA (#8)
ARISTOTLE “SOC” SOCARIDES
COOL BLUE TOMB (#1)
NEPTUNE’S EYE (#2)
DEATH IN DEEP WATER (#3)
FEEDING FRENZY (#4)
MAYFLOWER MURDER (#5)
BLUEFIN BLUES (#6)
GRAY LADY (#7)
SHARK BAIT (#8)
MATINICUS “MATT” HAWKINS
THE EMERALD SCEPTER (#1)
THE MINOAN CIPHER (#2)
SHORT STORIES
THE SIXTH DECOY: AN ARISTOTLE “SOC” SOCARIDES SHORT STORY (NOTHING GOOD HAPPENS AFTER MIDNIGHT: A SUSPENSE MAGAZINE ANTHOLOGY and
THE MYSTERIOUS BOOKSHOP PRESENTS THE BEST MYSTERY STORIES OF THE YEAR: 2021)
DEDICATION
To Clive, who taught me all I know, and then some.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to guide and historian Beth Chapman, owner of Hopper House Tours, for her willingness to share her expansive and insightful knowledge of Edward Hopper and his art. To the Truro Historical Society for pulling together the splendid Jo and Edward Hopper exhibition at the Highland House museum. To fellow newsmen Arthur Gaskill and Jack Johnson whose firsthand accounts of the record-breaking Peter Hesselbach flights planted the seed for this book so long ago. To the Truro folks who shared their memories of the dashing pilot. And to my wife and research partner Christi whose keen eye was such a great help as we wandered over land and sea in search of scene settings.
PRAISE FOR
KILLING ICARUS
“The suspense builds like a burning fuse to a bundle of dynamite in another first-rate mystery from Paul Kemprecos.”
—Dirk Cussler, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author
“Kemprecos proves again why he was Clive Cussler’s first choice for a co-writer. Killing Icarus is taut, lean and a whole lot of fun.”
—Jack Du Brul, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author
“From the first line to the last page, Killing Icarus is a spectacular and moody mystery. In the capable hands of Paul Kemprecos, we get a story crafted with the intricate precision of a Swiss watch. The windswept hills of a small New England town provide a wonderful setting. Art historian Abi Vickers and lawyer turned cop, Ben Dyer are characters you’ll find yourself rooting for as the pages turn and the dark secrets of an old mansion loom over them like a shadow.
Paul’s style and authenticity are second to none. He’s like Cape Cod’s version of Tony Hillerman. I urge you to pick up Killing Icarus, and when you’re done, go back and read Paul’s other mysteries. You won’t be disappointed.”
—Graham Brown, New York Times Bestselling Author
“It takes a writer of skills and talent to weave an impressive mystery involving Nazis, a famed American artist of the 1930’s and 1940’s, stolen artwork, a historical glider reenactment, and so much more, but Paul Kemprecos pulls it off with skill and panache. Killing Icarus is a stirring tale of secrets and betrayals, of old history coming to life, but more importantly, it’s a love letter to the beauty and past of Cape Cod. Highly recommended.”
—Brendan DuBois, Award-Winning and New York Times Bestselling Author
“Art historian Abi Vickers is an intriguing and refreshing heroine, and Killing Icarus is a fast-paced blend of mystery and suspense set upon the idyllic Cape Cod coast—which leaves me with one question for author Paul Kemprecos: When is the next Abi Vickers book coming out?”
—Robin Burcell, New York Times Bestselling Author of The Wrath of Poseidon
“Killing Icarus is a tension-filled thriller that puts the reader on edge from the first page. Paul Kemprecos places you on a roller coaster ride of action and suspense that will leave you breathless and have you begging for more. His characters are richly described and his plotting impeccable. Don’t miss this novel from a master writer at the top of his craft.”
—Joseph Badal, Military Writers of Society of America 2020 Writer of the Year
KILLING ICARUS
PAUL KEMPRECOS
PROLOGUE
Boston, Massachusetts, 1946
The Four-Faced liar was up to its old tricks.
The quartet of clocks at the top of the Boston Custom House Tower displayed a different time on each face, a common occurrence that had earned the liar its scornful nickname.
Otto Klaas looked up at the tower from behind the steering wheel of the battered black Ford pickup truck making its way along Atlantic Avenue and shook his head. The time was slightly before or after four in the morning, depending. A public display of such imprecision would never be tolerated in Germany.
Klaas was weary after hours behind the steering wheel. His shoulders and neck ached and his pale eyes were burning from lack of sleep. Despite his discomfort, he could hardly contain his euphoria.
As he neared the harbor, gray fingers of fog reached out and enveloped the battered vehicle in a woolly grip. Klaas turned on the wipers to clear the windshield and flicked the headlights to high. The twin streams of light produced a reflected glow that was practically useless.
He slammed on the brakes. His thin lips spat out an exclamation.
Verdammit!
Anger and frustration welled in his chest. He had come so far in the last few months, trekking over miles of war-torn landscape, living in constant fear that a sharp ear might detect his accent. Questions would then be asked. Papers demanded. The forger who sold him a new identity was good, but he’d been rushed and might have made a mistake.
The worst part of his journey was having to part with the boxes he had carried across Europe. He had placed them on a freighter bound for Boston and traveled separately on a passenger ship headed for New York. He’d been given no choice if he wanted to hide among the hordes of refugees desperate to escape from the continent.
Throughout the Atlantic crossing, as he lay in his cramped bunk, he had been haunted by the specter of possible failure. His ship made port two days before the cargo vessel reached the U.S. The truck he’d been promised was waiting for him, but it needed repairs. He bunked out in a flophouse until he got word that the cargo ship had docked. Within hours of the ship’s arrival, he was on his way to Boston to retrieve the boxes.
When the fog showed no sign of lifting, Klaas extracted a sheet of paper from a breast pocket. He carefully unfolded the bill of lading and held it close to the dim light coming from the dashboard. With his forefinger he traced the route on the street map he had drawn in pencil on the reverse side.
He put the truck into gear and drove at a walking speed, the wheels only inches from the curb. He stopped, consulted the map again, and then drove the truck around a corner.
A four-story granite building loomed from the murk. The letters painted on the worn wooden door spelled out Bay State Shipping and Receiving, the same words that were on the letterhead.
He parked the truck and got out, then walked up to the warehouse and pressed the doorbell; after a short wait, he rang a second time. The door slid partially aside and a stocky workman with a face the hue of a boiled beet stuck his head through the narrow opening.
“Warehouse doesn’t open until eight,” the workman said.
His breath was heavy with the sour smell of whiskey.
Klaas unfolded the bill of lading and thrust it in the workman’s face.
“Now,” he said in the tone of someone accustomed to having his orders followed.
His lustrous silver-gray eyes gazed at the warehouse m
The warehouse man wilted like a flower under the heat from the unrelenting gaze.
“Wait here,” he croaked.
He went back into the warehouse. Minutes later, he rolled the loading door fully open and pushed out a dolly that held some wooden boxes stacked vertically. Each container was around four feet square and six inches thick. Printed on the outside were the words: ‘Fragile’ and ‘Product of Switzerland’.
“Gotta sign a receipt,” the workman said.
Klaas ignored the request. He easily picked up the boxes and layered them in the back of the truck. He covered the boxes with a canvas tarp and tied the load down with manila rope to keep it from shifting.
The workman shrugged. “No skin off my nose,” he muttered before he went back into the warehouse to continue his nap.
The sun was rising over the harbor, its rays shredding the fog, as Klaas set off in the yellow light of dawn. He drove back onto Atlantic Avenue and merged with the first vestiges of morning traffic. He headed south out of the city into the countryside, passing neat farms that reminded him of home.
A few hours later he crossed a bridge that arched high above a wide canal and continued on a winding, two-lane road past velvety marshes and antique houses. The air that came in the open windows smelled of saltwater and fish. Occasionally, there was a glimpse of the sea.
It never occurred to Klaas, as he enjoyed the bucolic scenery that he was participating in one of the most heinous crimes of the twentieth century. In his mind, he was a cultured German, a Nazi of convenience. He looked down upon the savage methods of his friends in the SS, even though they had actually enabled his criminality.
His actions harmed no one, he reasoned. The victims of his crimes were already dead and the future generations he was robbing of their heritage were yet to be born.
After driving nearly seventy miles along the inside curve of a peninsula shaped like a curled arm, he came to the narrowest part of the promontory, where the land was only a mile or so wide. He stopped for gas at a Mobil station with three red pumps. The man who pumped gas said he was his first customer of the day.
Klaas forced a smile and continued on his journey. A few minutes later he turned off the main road onto a narrow lane and followed it to a sandy, overgrown driveway flanked on both sides by pitch pine and scrub oak woods. He wheeled the truck onto the driveway which led to a low-slung, silver-shingled house.
Behind the house was a white barn. Colorful lobster buoys hung from nails pounded into the clapboards. He stopped in front of the house and tried the doors. Finding them locked, he drove the truck further and parked in front of the barn door.
Klaas got out of the truck again and walked through knee-high grass to a high bluff. A sea breeze blew in his face from the sun-sparkled bay. Nearly twenty years had passed since he’d stood on this spot, but the seagirt solitude was as he remembered.
He looked off at the gulls hovering over the cliffs, remembering how he had studied their flight for hours. He lifted his arms and moved them slowly up and down as if they were wings. A beatific smile came to his narrow face.
Klaas filled his lungs with fresh air. The smell of the over-crowded passenger ship decks still clung to his nostrils. He could have tarried at this windswept bluff for hours, letting the breeze blow the stink away, but he had work to do. Reluctantly, he tore himself away from the cliffs and went back to the barn.
The padlock on the door was rusted shut and would have been impossible to open even if he had a key. He took a switchblade from his pocket, stuck the point into the soft wood under the latch, and easily pried the sturdy lock and screws from the wood. Then he slid the door open and stepped into the barn.
He walked between the empty stalls that still smelled faintly of livestock and manure, then went back outside and strolled around the perimeter of the property. The farm was mostly surrounded by forest, except for the side nearest the barn where the land gently sloped down to a neglected apple orchard and a copse of red cedar trees.
All was quiet. The only sounds were the whisper of the wind in the trees and the plaintive call of the gulls. Satisfied that he could work unobserved, he went back to unload the truck.
The tranquility was deceiving, because Klaas was not alone. As he removed the boxes from the back of the truck and carried them into the barn, curious eyes studied his every move.
Extending far out to sea, away from the belching smokestacks of mainland factories, the Outer Cape was known for the peculiar quality of the sunlight that knifed through the crystal-clear atmosphere and carved objects into sharp relief.
It was this clarity that had drawn the artist to the edge of the sea. He liked to paint subjects best seen in the full light of day, skillfully applying strokes of paint to the canvas as if he were using a sunbeam for a brush.
On this day, he demanded a golden light, so he had waited until the afternoon to paint the house and barn. He also wanted the reflection of the sun glowing like fire in the windows.
The artist was a well-built man several inches over six feet in height. He wore baggy cotton slacks, an old dress shirt and a beat-up sports jacket that was practically threadbare. A crumpled fedora was pulled down over the observant blue eyes that had been absorbing the lines and textures of the old buildings.
Something bothered him. There were two wells on the property. One was near the house, the other close to the barn. He was an artist who often painted not what a scene actually was, but how he felt it should be. Sometimes he composed parts of other scenes into his finished work.
The lobster buoys symbolized a local way of life, but they hadn’t been used in a long time. He liked the solitude and quiet of the scene, along with its hint of mystery. Had the lobsterman grown too old to work? Or had he died from the toil and struggle of everyday life?
The artist loved the play of shadows and sunlight on simple buildings, especially on white and yellow. To him, the exterior of a building was like an unpainted canvas. But the wells stood between the artist and his subject, so he simply sketched the scene as if the little walls and cupolas were not there. He thought about putting the wells off to the side but decided that would spoil the composition.
The artist had finished a sketch of the farmhouse and barn, when he heard the grumble of an exhaust and the crush of tires on the shells in the driveway. His full lips tightened. He tucked the charcoal pencil behind an ear, turned and strode briskly on long legs toward the stand of red cedar trees. Seconds after he had melted unseen into the woods, a pickup truck came around the farmhouse and parked in front of the barn.
Hidden from view in the trees, the artist felt a twinge of embarrassment for bolting like a scared rabbit.
Technically speaking, he was trespassing, although the house had been vacant for years. More important, he hated to be watched while at work. He was a private man. The last thing the artist desired or needed was someone peering over his shoulder as he made the quick pencil sketches that would lay the foundation for an oil painting.
Vanity played a role as well. He didn’t want observers to think the rough sketches were anywhere near the final product. In fact, the sketches often looked far different from the picture he would paint in his studio. He had planned the sketch session days before he’d even sharpened his drawing pencils, and had made a number of treks to the scene from his house to study the effect of light at different times of day. He had hiked some distance across the grassy downs from his house and come onto the property from the rear.
The artist was celebrated for his bleak portraits of the city. His most famous work showed the denizens of a cheap restaurant late at night. But the artist loved to paint old houses and rolling dunes, and he was attracted by people doing their jobs, like a man tending a gas pump at night. Or office people working late in the day. He was equally intrigued by the pickup truck now parked near the barn doors. The long, pointed hood and the grill reminded him of the baleen smile of a whale.
