The Comeback

By Craig Conrad

Frankie Vane was a hand-me-down kid. After both his parents skipped out on him, he was shuffled off to one unwanting relative to the next until he ran out of relatives at age seventeen and had to spend one year in an orphanage. At age eighteen, he began to have some success until the draft and World War II interfered and cost him three years fighting the Germans. After the war, he resumed his career only to have it end when someone murders him. He comes back from the dead to find out who and why and even manages to find love, which he never had before, along the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664148697

Craig Conrad

Author resides in Milwaukee. Wisconsin, has been hooked on mysteries and supernatural thrillers since reading his first H.P. Lovecraft novel. He has written twenty novels, fourteen of them are Paul Rice novels, his reluctant paranormal investigator, with cameo appearances in two others that feature two of his war buddies along with two Dutch Verlander stories, and a collection of short stories.

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Copyright © 2021 by Craig Conrad.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 12/21/2020

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CONTENTS

Dachau, Germany April 1945

Part One   December and January

The Transfer

Milwaukee, Wisconsin:December 1952

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Part Two   January and February

Serving a cold dish

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Epilogue

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To the ’50s: those were the days

Blood will have blood.

—Sixteenth-century proverb

DACHAU, GERMANY

April 1945

Do I know Frankie Vane? Of course, I do.

Oh, he told you about me, and you want me to tell you about him before you decide what to do. Is that it?

Okay. No, I don’t mind telling you, if you’re sure you want to hear this.

You do.

Well, everybody that has gone through this has a story to tell, and there are many to choose from, but I rather like Frankie’s story. It’s sort of special and one of my favorites. I like to tell it because I think people should hear it, so I’m glad you asked. His story has all the ingredients: love, betrayal, money, and murder. I could go on, but mainly it’s about two people who find worth in each other. And of course, it’s the story of a comeback, a rather strange comeback, as you well know, or you wouldn’t be asking. So I’d have to say that it started with Frankie on that April day at Dachau near the end of the war in ’45.

Twenty-year-old Frankie Vane had been drafted near the middle of 1942 and was assigned as an infantry replacement to the 222nd Infantry Regiment, 42nd Rainbow Division. On this bright and sunny day, his outfit and been loaded into trucks and were traveling along the Autobahn past a town called Augsburg when they were diverted to a secondary road that led to a different direction near another town that no one knew the name of. The Germans were falling back all along the front and were trying to put up some dead-end resistance wherever they could. The diversion was a shock because everyone in the outfit thought they were part of the race to capture Munich, which was only about twelve miles away.

Eventually, they stopped and were told to de-truck and cross a field that approached what looked like a large factory complex with thirty or more buildings on it. They were ordered to check it over; they fanned out away from the trucks and started walking cautiously toward the complex. Nineteen-year-old Art Hathaway, a draftee replacement from Minnesota, was with Frankie. They had buddied-up a year ago when Art joined the unit along with other replacements. It was tough making friends in the army, mainly because it was hard keeping them. When you lost a friend, it hurt like hell; but then Frankie never had anyone he could even call a friend until the army, and he had lost two of those already. He gave Art a quick look, who was on his left, and another to Rich Adams, another young draftee replacement from Michigan, who was on his right. They moved slowly forward, M-1 rifles at the ready.

Jerry was on the run, but it didn’t pay to be complacent, which caused carelessness. When you reached a point in your mind where you thought you had combat figured out, that’s when you usually got hit; and Frankie had been wounded once already and wasn’t looking forward to a repeat performance. No telling what was in those buildings. The Germans might just be lying in wait.

Nearing the complex, they found moats about ten-feet wide and three-feet deep, and fences of tangle-foot barbed wire surrounding the property. They followed the fence line to a gate and a nearby railroad siding with thirty-nine railcars standing idle on the tracks. As they drew closer, the first thing they noticed was the terrible smell. It hung in the air like a sickening fog that made their eyes water and their stomachs want to heave. It was the worst smell Frankie had ever encountered, even worse than the stockyards in Chicago he once got a whiff of as a kid. Along with other GIs, they began pulling all the doors open, but each parked railcar was the same—it was a death train. Hollow-eyed dead bodies that were more bone than flesh were piled on top of each other inside each car and stared accusingly at them and the world for letting this happen. It was hard to see and difficult to believe. The GIs had seen unbelievable things in this war, but this was too much; it was beyond comprehension. This was the first time any of them had come across a concentration camp while fighting their way across Europe. Frankie knew there was a lot of indifference in the world; and as a foster child, being bounced around from home to home, he knew there wasn’t much love either, if any. It seemed it was easier for people to hate than to love. But this was the human race at its worst. There was nothing human about this. Darwin was right: if we had evolved from animals, we are still animals.

Holly fuckin’ shit, Hathaway swore. What the fuck is this place? He had never sworn in his entire life until he joined the US Army. It was a permanent part of his vocabulary now to show he was no longer a green kid but a seasoned veteran. Besides that, the situation seemed to call for some strong words of outrage, as every day of the war did, only this was far worse. Now swearing was a part of the language that needed to be said.

Are these guys GIs? POWs? Adams asked.

I don’t think so, Frankie said, looking over the railcar. There are whole families in there—men as well as women and children. I think these are just people the Nazis don’t like. Ones that don’t fit into their master race plans, like Jews and such.

Jews? Hathaway said. Like Sergeant Bernstein?

Yeah, like him, Frankie said. Like you.

Me? I’m a Quaker.

The Nazis don’t like Quakers either, Frankie said.

Holy shit, Hathaway said.

Look! Krauts! Adams shouted and pointed at the open space between the railcars.

There was another large meadow on the other side of the railroad siding. About twelve German guards were running across the field toward the safety of the woods on the far side. They all wore the black uniform of the SS. Since eighty American POWs were machine-gunned down at Malmedy during the Battle of the Bulge last winter, word among the GIs was to take no prisoners. So they didn’t, especially the SS, whom they killed on sight anyway.

The three GIs hopped through the openings of two of the coupled railcars and started firing at the fleeing Germans. The last one went down on his face with his butt sticking up. Hathaway put another round in him to level him out. After the shooting was over, Frankie was glad to see that none of the bastards had escaped.

Entering the camp, Frankie saw there were more GIs coming into the complex from another direction and were from another unit, the 45th Thunderbird Division. Once inside, Frankie paired off with Art and told Adams to do the same with another lone GI from their outfit called Baker that they had run into. They began checking the buildings over, using them for cover when they could. Most of them were barracks that contained nothing but the decomposing shaved heads and skeleton-like bodies of more dead. The stench inside was even worse than in the railcars, if that was possible. Flies were all over the bodies. The naked dead were everywhere. Some were stacked up like cordwood and sprinkled with lye, others had been hastily burned in fire pits by fleeing guards, and others lay where they had been shot or beaten to death. The Germans were trying not to leave anyone alive to tell tales—the last orders from Reichsfuhrer SS Heinrich Himmler.

In another area, they found a pile of shoes about fifteen-feet high and another pile of clothes about four-feet high and ten-feet square. Frankie saw baskets of what he first thought were marbles; only they weren’t marbles—they were human teeth with gold fillings.

Hathaway started to throw up. Frankie tried not to, but the added sight and sound of Art doing it was too much. When they got their stomachs under control, they moved deeper into the camp. They turned in one corner and three Germans in SS uniforms approached them with their hands in the air. Each one had on a red cross armband. Whether that was true or not, it was hard to say. They might just have put the bands on to escape any accountability for what had happened here. It didn’t matter to Frankie, he had seen more than enough. He shot and killed all three. Art fired into the prone bodies as well, just to make sure.

Two walking skeletons had crawled out from underneath one barracks where they had been hiding and walked toward them. They wore striped rags over their protruding bones and looked like the walking dead. It was hard to comprehend how they could still be alive. They fell to their knees. The closest one kissed the back of Frankie’s hand; the other hung on to his trouser leg. They both had tears in their eyes and were thanking him in a foreign language that Frankie guessed was Yiddish or Hebrew. It made Frankie feel good, and also strange; no one had ever thanked him before for anything. With Art’s help, he got them to their feet and with some pointing and broken English got the two men to walk to the center of the compound where they could get some needed help. This place still had to be checked out and cleared for Germans.

Rounding another corner, they came to a remote part of the camp and stumbled across two GI’s that neither Frankie nor Art recognized as being from their unit. The two were between some barracks; one was on the ground and looked like he was dead; the other one was sort of in a crouch over him holding a bloody bayonet in his left hand. They didn’t see the .45 he held in the other.

Hey! Art yelled. What the hell’s goin’ on?

The guy spun toward them and fired twice. Both shots were headshots, hitting Art Hathaway in the forehead and killing him instantly, and the other hitting Frankie square in the helmet, spinning around between his steel pot and his helmet liner. The bullet didn’t kill him, but it knocked him out.

When Frankie regained consciousness, he had one hell of a headache. He found Art dead next to him, and the GI, between the barracks, was still lying there and was dead too. He had been stabbed. The guy doing the killing had been in an American uniform. Was he really an American or a German dressed as one?

Later, Frankie told his sergeant what had happened.

Probably was a fuckin’ Kraut, Sergeant Bernstein said.

Frankie could see that the sergeant had tears in his eyes.

You know those bastards do stuff like that, Bernstein went on. Look what they did here.

But Frankie wasn’t so sure. In either case, he never saw the guy again.

And he had looked for the murdering son of a bitch all day.

Vengeance is a dish that should be eaten cold.

—English proverb

PART ONE

December and January

The Transfer

MILWAUKEE, WISCONSIN

December 1952

1

Conception is, but not always, supposed to be an act of love. Frankie Vane, on the other hand, was no one’s love-child, not even his mother and father’s. He was more of an unplanned event, more of an accident of cold liquor and hot passion that found fruition on a rainy night. Consequently, neither one of his parents was thrilled at his arrival into this world and neither one loved him enough or wanted him enough to keep him. His father left first, having no wedding ring to tie him down, chasing some willing redhead in a tight skirt right out of town. Then his mother left for parts unknown with a new man in her life, but not before she stuck him with her sister, who had four small mouths to feed of her own and didn’t really need another one. After that, he wound up with one shirttail relative after another; and when the relatives ran out, he was dumped in an orphanage for a year until he was eighteen.

Growing up, he lived in a musical-chair game of life, shuffled between relatives who tried to do the right thing, until it became too much of an imposition raising someone else’s child. Fifteen different homes later, where, again, he was just another mouth to feed and not a child to be loved, and merely tolerated as long as some form of compensation was coming in, he dwelled in obscurity until he was eighteen and away from all foster parents—and even then well into his twenties. After which he finally was somebody and found love, even though it was scripted and contrived. It was more than he ever had in his life. He felt successful, making what he considered the big time, or at least had some fame as a movie star, even if it was in porn, but then nothing ever went smoothly in his life, as the war and the army interfered with his career.

By the time he was almost thirty, minus a three-year hitch in the army, lots of people had seen and heard of Frankie Vane. That was not his real name, just his stage name. His real name was Logan Frank Kline, which he immediately changed when he entered the movie world and became a star, deciding that Vane sounded more lyrical and theatrical than Klein. Well, maybe he wasn’t a real big star, but a star nonetheless. A number of things drove him to pursue stardom, namely, that he didn’t have a college education and had no means of acquiring one at the time even though he was smart in school, and foster parents just didn’t send foster kids to college even if they were related, and even if they had the money, they would have spent it on themselves; nor did the state care. There was the GI Bill, but at the time that sounded like lots of work, so he decided to try to resume his career. The two main factors in his decision to stick to porn pictures were that he liked having sex with a variety of women, and he was also blessed with a large endowment. Lots of people had seen his pictures. If not, they surely must have read the story about him in the newspaper recently. It made some front-page headlines while other papers buried the story on the next to last page. At the time, Frankie thought there was no accounting for some people’s taste in the news.

He had just finished making a hot porn film with Dolly Rawling, which was fun. Dolly was a tall, sexy blonde with blue eyes and ample body, whose appetite for sex matched his own; hence, they always enjoyed themselves on the set when they worked together. After the last scene was over for the day, they dressed and Frankie walked her to her car in the parking lot. They kissed and Dolly got in and drove off with the promise of more fun and games if he followed her to her apartment, which he surely intended to do as soon as he got in his car.

With more lustful thoughts of Dolly dancing in his head and a satisfied smile of what the rest of the evening would bring, Frankie approached his car, opened it, and started to get in. He was happy. Besides the delicious prospect of Dolly waiting for him, there was a job offer on the table for him to go to California where the real money is made in this business.

That’s when he felt the pain and heard the loud noise.

He didn’t know it at the time, but someone had just shot him twice in the back.

2

When Frankie Vane regained consciousness, all he could see was a surrounding grayness. He guessed he was in a room of some sort, but if it was a room, there was no furniture, none that he could see anyway. It felt like he was in a bed, but he couldn’t see that either—just the grayness, like a cocoon of fog. There was another presence in the room, and it was laughing at him with a voice that was more inside his head than out.

Heh, heh, heh, the voice laughed. It was an adult laugh, but high, much like Andy Devine’s laugh in the movies.

Where am I? Frankie asked.

You don’t know?

No.

Where do you think you are?

I haven’t the faintest fucking idea, Frankie snapped. Why do you keep answering my questions with questions?

Sorry, it’s my nature. If you had to guess, where do you think you are, what would you say?

I don’t know, Frankie said, in a hospital.

Why there?

Frankie was losing his patience. Christ. I was shot. Why all the goddamn questions? You a cop?

Just trying to refresh your memory. And I’m not a cop. And you do remember getting shot. That’s good.

Yes. I remember that. Who the hell are you anyway?

Call me Freddy.

Freddy? Just Freddy? Frankie said, straining to see into the grayness, trying to find where in the room this guy was.

Yeah. Freddy’s good enough.

Okay, Freddy. What is it that you do?

What do you think I do?

Frankie was getting tired of this insane conversation. Jesus Christ. I haven’t the damnedest idea what. Just give me a straight answer. Who the hell are you?

I’m your spiritual advisor, you might say.

I don’t need a spiritual advisor. I just need to get the fuck out of here.

In due time, Freddy said. You said that you remember getting shot. You recall anything after that?

Frankie thought for a moment. No, nothing. I guess I must have passed out and woke up in here. What is this place, a hospital?

No. It’s sort of like a halfway house, Freddy said.

A halfway house? Frankie said, his voice rising. I’m no damn jailbird or alcoholic.

Do you remember what you thought, what you prayed for, right after you were shot, before you passed out?

Not really.

You prayed to live. Your last thought was, and I quote, ‘You bastard, whoever you are. I’m coming back for you.’ Do you remember now?

Yeah, I guess, Frankie said, shaking his head to help clear his thoughts. I was out of my head.

Do you still want to go back? Freddy asked. That’s why you’re here, you know.

Frankie made a puzzled face. What do you mean, go back? Go back to where?

To the physical plane, Freddy explained. You’re dead.

Frankie was shocked. Dead? You’re nuts. I can’t be dead.

"But you are. You were shot and you died, or passed on as we like to say."

Frankie thought about it, still thinking this guy had a few pieces missing upstairs. So what are you, some kind of an angel?

I never said I was an angel.

Then if I’m dead, what are you, a devil? Frankie asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

Not that either, Freddy said. I’m just someone that can arrange for you to go back. You still want to?

You mean I can go back? Be alive again? You can do that?

You are still alive, only you are no longer physical. And yes, I can do that, but you can only go back to find whoever shot you. For any other reason, a different arrangement has to be made. That’s the reason why you are here. Do you still want to return?

Hell, yes, Frankie said. I want to go back and get the guy that shot me. Wouldn’t you?

This is about you, not about me, Freddy said. But so be it. I will arrange it.

What do I have to do? Frankie asked. Do I have to wait? I want to go back right away and get whoever shot me.

You have to do nothing, Freddy said. But if you return immediately, you might not like it.

I’ll like it. Just get me back.

All right, but remember this is what you wanted, Freddy said. I’ll keep in touch.

Freddy started laughing again in that high-pitched voice.

Frankie could hear his laughter dying away, and wondered what the hell was so funny.

3

When Frankie opened his eyes again, there were other people in a room and lots of excited voices, like opening his eyes was the greatest thing anyone had ever seen. There was an attractive brunette with a warm smile staring down at him and a guy with a kind of horsey face doing the same. They were both dressed in white and were checking all the tubes that were hooked up to him. He was in bed, and this time he was in a hospital.

Frankie tried to get up but the guy held him down.

Just lie back down and rest, he said. You’ve been through a lot, Danny. You have to get your strength back.

Frankie looked at him, bewildered. Danny?

I’m Dr. Knowles, he said and smiled. You just rest and get well, and you’ll be home in no time. He kept his smile. That’s an order, by the way.

Another attractive female face loomed over him, this time it belonged to a blonde with shoulder-length hair. She took his face in her hands and kissed him on the cheek.

Oh, Danny, she said with happy tears in her eyes. You’ve had me so worried. I prayed that you would come out of it.

Frankie looked at her strangely, with an even more puzzled expression than he had for the doctor.

The blonde caught his reaction. Danny, don’t you know me? I’m your mother.

Frankie frowned. My mother?

She shot an alarmed look at Dr. Knowles. He doesn’t know me. She compressed her lips tightly and tried not to cry.

Dr. Knowles nodded. He might have some short-term amnesia. Don’t forget he’s been in a coma for several days. Give it time, Mrs. Wirth. I’m sure with proper rest and nutrition, he will remember everything. If you recall, we weren’t even sure he would come out of the coma.

I was, she said. I knew he would.

Dr. Knowles smiled again and patted her on the arm. I know you did. We should let him rest and get his bearings and strength back. I have to let the police know that he’s conscious. They’ll want to talk to him when he’s able.

When will that be? she said anxiously. I want to take him home.

We’ll see. We have to take it day by day. In time, he’ll be fine, he assured her. You’ll see. You should get some rest too. Go home for a while. If anything changes, I’ll call you right away.

She nodded reluctantly, gave Frankie another hug and kiss, and walked out of