Chapter Five

Napoleon was nuzzling the neck of Evelyn Chambers.  They had just retired to the bedroom after a splendid romp on the couch.  Now he was more than excited to spend the night with the lovely woman when he heard the phone ring.  He answered it reluctantly on the fifth ring.

“Please tell me this is not an emergency?” he said, still kissing Evelyn’s neck.

“Mr. Solo,” the voice was unfamiliar and formal.  Napoleon instantly lost interest in Evelyn to her chagrin.  She visibly bristled when he pulled away from her to sit straight in the bed, his attention riveted to the unfamiliar voice.

“I’m Dr. Hamilton from OakWood.  I believe I have a friend of yours here.  His name is Illya Kuryakin.  He seems to be in shock after finding the body of his girlfriend.”

 “What happened?  Where is he?”

The doctor explained what had happened while Solo got dressed.   Solo had ushered Evelyn out and was in his car headed towards Oakwood within 15 minutes, his car racing and swerving through the streets with only one thought in mind—getting to Illya.  He had called a doctor at UNCLE headquarters who was also on his way.  This was done because the doctor had said that Illya was in shock, not even able to speak English.  UNCLE had rules governing an agent's emotional state.  If he for any reason was compromised the results could be devastating, therefore it was necessary for an UNCLE physician to be in attendance.

Napoleon reached the town of OakWood in record time.  He parked the car and sprinted toward Roy’s house.  The cops were gathering evidence.  Roy was sitting on the couch crying softly and Illya was still sitting on the floor, his face pale, his hands shaking.

Napoleon crouched down before the Russian.  “Illya, can you hear me?”  Illya stared vacantly at the door to Lisa’s room.  A tall man with grey hair and a thin face hovered nearby. 

“You must be Dr Hamilton.”  Napoleon asked still watching his friend.  The doctor came forward and leaned down toward the Russian.   

“And you’re Mr. Solo?”  He asked.

“Yes.  What’s going on with him?  He doesn’t seem to know I’m here.”

“I’ve tried talking to him with the little Russian I know, which isn’t much.  Apparently he hasn’t spoken since calling the police.  He has a gun, by the way.”

“I know.  We work for UNCLE.”

“Yes.  I’m familiar with that organization.  I didn’t think he looked like he had killed her, so I didn’t tell the police.”

“I appreciate that.  Listen, I need to get him out of here.”

“He needs medical attention. I’d advise taking him to the hospital.”

“He’ll have care.  I’ve got a doctor meeting us at my place.  I live a few doors down.”

“I know.  I’ve seen this young man and Lisa together many times.  Such a tragedy.”

“What happened?”

“Someone apparently gained access to the home and shot the young lady point blank in the face.”

Napoleon took a shuddering breath, eyeing Illya who still sat on the floor staring blankly.

Napoleon reached down, pulling the blond up.  Illya was shaking so badly that he could hardly stand.  “Come on Illya, I’ve got to get you home.”

“Napoleon, what are you doing here?”   The blond spoke in Russian, the words difficult for Napoleon to decipher.

“Illya, can you speak English.  You know Russian has always been a challenge for me.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked in English.  Solo gave a sigh of relief.  He had thought the Russian had lost his hold on reality; still he didn’t seem to remember Lisa dying.

“You had the doctor call me, remember?”

“Call…call…” his eyes glazed over.  He looked at Lisa’s door and collapsed in Napoleon’s arms.

A few hours later, Napoleon sat in Illya’s bedroom.  He and the doctor had managed to get him upstairs and tucked into bed.  Dr. Hamilton had checked his vital signs and reluctantly left.  UNCLE’s doctor arrived later and administered a sedative to the nervous Russian who had almost hyperventilated once he regained consciousness.  Now, he slept peacefully in his bed.

Napoleon eyed the sleeping form of his best friend.  He would suffer greatly when he awakened and had to face the reality of Lisa’s death.  Solo hadn’t known how involved the Russian had become with Lisa.  He was aware that the Russian was interested in the girl, but not to this extent.  It was apparent to him now that Illya had loved her.

Solo realized the task ahead of him.  The Russian had never been in love before—at least Solo didn’t think he had.  But Lisa’s death my have been at the hands of a hate monger.  Illya would expect justice, need it in fact, but could they hope for that kind of justice in a land that still allowed the guilty to walk when the victim wasn’t white? 

Solo thought of who might have wanted Lisa dead.  The klan had a headquarters in Oakwood.  Could they have come to her house in the middle of the night and killed her?  But why hadn’t they killed Illya?  Why hadn’t they simply waited and killed both of them as they slept?  His friend had to be despised not only for loving Lisa, but for being Soviet.  He looked at Illya.  He was so vulnerable now.  He looked like a child as he slept—so innocent of the life he would awaken too.  Napoleon vowed to find Lisa’s killer and protect his friend.  Damn this town. How much more would they all suffer to live in a quiet suburb that was meant to relieve stress, not cause it.  Yet it had caused stress and plenty of it.  From the first week Solo moved into the Victorian house, Illya’s life had been threatened.  And then Solo had suffered at the hands of an impossible double of Illya.  Now this.  Yet his friends loved the house and so he had kept it.  Kept it for April and Illya—his two best friends, his family.

Solo closed his eyes.  He would need sleep for the days ahead.  He would solve this crime and save his friend at the same time.  In minutes he entered the dream world where problems are solved just by waking up.

It was the soft, almost unnatural silence of the house that awakened Illya.  He struggled to consciousness, hearing the soft creek of the house as it settled and forgetting where he was.  He opened his eyes, blinking in confusion at the room.  He noted the soft lighting, the oriental rugs, and a fireplace. He sat up and saw a dark-haired man sleeping in a chair.  He tried to get up, grasping the headboard as he stood on shaking legs.  He crashed to the floor in a heap.  The man approached him, stroking his hair, pulling him up from the floor.  All so confusing.  Who was he and why was he in this room.

“Illya,” the man said almost shouting.

“Who are you?  Where am I?” Illya said in Russian.

“Please, English.  I can barely understand Russian.  You know that Tovarish.”

Tovarish.  The man called him Tovarish. 

“Can you understand me?”

“Yes.  How did I get here?  Who are you?” The blond asked in English.

“Illya, I’m Napoleon.  You must remember.”

Illya looked at him with confusion.  He remembered nothing but the last few minutes and waking up.

Now, the dark-haired man seemed concerned.  He kept calling him by the unfamiliar name.  Finally, he saw the man pick up the telephone, dialing quickly and speaking to a doctor.  He could understand English, but he didn’t know why or how.  His life was a blank and the man standing before him a complete stranger.

Chapter Six

Napoleon was pacing the floor in Waverly’s office at UNCLE headquarters.  They had called in a psychiatrist when Napoleon discovered the Russian couldn’t remember anything.  Doctor Hillgrave was a man of about sixty, with slate grey hair and a strong prominent chin.  His piercing blue eyes watched Solo as he paced the floor.

“So, how did this happen?  He seemed to remember me when we were at Roy’s house?” Napoleon said.

“The type of amnesia he has is uncommon.  I suspect the stress of the situation caused him to block out the memory.  At any rate, the condition is probably temporary as it is in most cases of hysterical amnesia.  He should recover within forty-eight hours.”

Waverly cleared his throat, “And then what can we expect, Dr. Hillgrave?  Understand Mr. Kuryakin is not one given to hysterics.”

“He will need close monitoring.”

“He won’t want to stay here.  I know that for a fact.  And no way are we sending him to some mental institution.”  Solo added quickly.

“I’m not suggesting that.  On the contrary, I suggest you take him to his apartment now.  Give him someplace familiar to regain his memory.  I would not suggest going back to OakWood, however.”

Napoleon sat down facing the doctor.  “What can I do for him?”

“You two seem close.  Stay with him.  Don’t leave for a second.  We don’t know how he’ll react when he remembers.  He may feel guilty.  He may be angry.  We just don’t know.”

Waverly took a puff of his pipe, the blue smoke swirling in the air.  “I had no idea Mr. Kuryakin had become so involved with the young lady.”

“Neither did I,” Solo said shaking his head.  “When can I take him home?”

“The sooner the better,” the doctor said.

Solo left the hospital with Illya late in the evening.  They had returned to the familiar surroundings of Illya’s apartment.  It had been thirty hours since the Russian woke up in the bedroom of the Victorian house.  Now, Solo watched as the Russian ate the steak he had prepared the minute they had arrived.  The Russian ate hungrily, barely speaking as he eyed the American.

“I was afraid when you took me to UNCLE headquarters.” Illya said suddenly.

“Why?” Napoleon asked.  “I told you I was going to get some help for you.”

“I was speaking Russian.  I just naturally assumed that if I were in America…”

“Rest assured, you’re one of the friendlees and one of UNCLE’s finest,” he smiled.   “I just took you there to get some help for you.” 

Illya looked at his plate and then at Solo as he spoke, “Are we close friends?”

“Very.  You’re like a brother to me.”

“I don’t remember that?”  

“I know.  But you will.  The doctor said this form of amnesia usually goes away within a few days.”

“I know, he told me.  Hysterical amnesia I believe.  Brought on by some traumatic event.”

The Russian looked down at his steak, his body visibly shaking.

“Listen, Illya.  I’m going to be there for you.  When you remember, I’ll be there.”

“What happened to me, Napoleon?”

“The doctor said that it would be better if you just remembered it.  It could happen suddenly, but you’ll remember.”

“What if I don’t want to remember,” the Russian said in a quiet voice.  “What could be so horrible that I would stop remembering my life, you, UNCLE, everything?”

“You’ll remember and together, we’ll get through it.”

The Russian returned to eating his steak, a far off look on his face.

Illya had been tense when he went to bed and Napoleon had insisted upon sleeping in the room with him.  If the doctor was right, the Russian could start to remember at any moment.  Napoleon was afraid that Illya would be alone when it happened so he sat in the uncomfortable chair in Illya’s room with his legs propped up on a foot-stool.  Now he eyed his friend.  The soft moonlight illuminated the silvery, gold color of his hair.  Illya had been tossing and turning for the last few hours.  Solo wondered what he dreamed about.  A few times he wanted to waken him from his nightmare, but thought better of it.  Perhaps the Russian was starting to remember.  In many ways he would have preferred if Illya could somehow regain his memory without remembering the horrible incident that lead to its loss.  

Napoleon had just dozed off when he heard the scream.  It was like that of an animal trapped and in pain.  Napoleon quickly got up, running to Illya’s bed.  Illya was sitting up, his eyes wide, screaming hysterically. 

“Illya, it’s okay.  You’re here with me.  You’re safe.”  Napoleon was lightly stroking his friend’s hair, trying to stop the scream that wouldn’t stop.  He sat down on the bed, still stroking the Russian’s hair.   Finally Illya stopped screaming.

“It’s my fault.  It’s my fault,” he said repeatedly.

“No.  Someone killed her.  You had nothing to do with that, Tovarish.”

“I could have stopped it.  I knew the dangers.  Don’t you see I could have stopped it?”

The Russian was shaking, his eyes wide. “I’m going to find the killer.  When I do, I’ll make him pay.  Pay with his life.”

Napoleon didn’t like the dangerous tone in his friend's voice.  The Russian sounded like he planned to murder the killer, even if it was in cold blood.

“We’ll find him together.  He will pay by the hands of the law.”

“There is no law for people like us.”

Napoleon knew what Illya meant.  His friend knew how blind justice could really be.  Still, he needed to stop his friend from going on a path of vengeance.

“Illya, the law is for everyone.”

Illya jerked his body back suddenly, his eyes blazing.  “You think the law is going to care about a black woman being killed.  You really think that anyone would care except the few people who loved her?  No, Justice is not blind.  Her killer was most likely a white man and that’s no crime in a lot of places, and you know it.”

And Napoleon couldn’t deny the truth of the statement.  It was just a few years ago when black’s were being lynched and the criminals never prosecuted.  It was just a few years ago when a church was bombed with black children inside. 

Napoleon looked sadly at his friend, “We’re going to see to it, Illya.  We will make sure this killer pays one way or another.”

He knew that he meant it.  It was a promise of sorts.  The same promise he had made to Illya when they had first became friends.  He would not stand idly by while the world made their hatred for the Russian known.  He had defended Illya at UNCLE and anywhere else he saw prejudice.  Now, he would make that same promise to a girl who may have died simply because of the color of her skin.

Illya took a shuddering breath, “You’ve no idea what that means to me.  You’ve know idea how I value our friendship, but if I do end up crossing the line, I don’t want you with me.”

“There’s no way you can get rid of me.  We’re in this together.”

The two men locked eyes--one white American who had access to everything the world had to offer and one Russian, who suffered the stings of prejudice.  For now they were the same—they wanted justice.

Chapter Seven

Three days later Illya and Napoleon returned to the town of OakWood.  They were sitting next to each other in the sheriff’s office.     Sheriff Albert Simmons was a large man.  His small eyes and bright red hair made him a man not easily forgotten.  Illya sat across from the sheriff listening to him as he related what he knew of the crime.  Solo had identified himself to the man as an UNCLE agent and the sheriff had immediately warmed to the two agents.  It was a typical reaction most law enforcement agents had when they realized they had a chance to work with UNCLE.

“She was a pretty little gal, wasn’t she?” the sheriff said.  “It’s a shame, poor Roy.”

“Yes.  He’s really taking it hard.  Solo said.  “Listen, I want to solve this case and I need any help you can provide.”

“Well, it’s not going to be easy finding her killer.  Plenty of folks around here didn’t appreciate having her around.”  The sheriff’s eyes fixed on Illya “And plenty didn’t like a white man hanging around a black woman.”

Illya ignored the last statement.  “I am aware of her mixed race heritage, but that doesn’t mean we’re not going to find her killer.”  The Russian said tightly.  

The Sheriff raised a cease fire hand.  “No, of course not, I’m not suggesting we sweep this under the rug…”

“But isn’t that what you people do, sweep it under the rug,” Illya said angrily, attempting to stand.  Napoleon put a reassuring hand on Illya, pulling him back in the chair.

“You must excuse my friend.  His involvement with the victim makes this all the more difficult,” Solo said apologetically.  He didn’t want to antagonize the man.  They needed all the help they could get. 

They sheriff nodded his head in understanding.  “I know.  I saw you with the girl.  Listen, not everybody is like the bigots.  I’m not.  I want to find this killer as much as you do.”

“I doubt that,” Illya said tightly, locking eyes with the sheriff.

“I can’t change how you feel about me, but I’m on your side.  I want this killer.  He will be punished to the full extent of the law.”

“And what is that extent,” Illya asked?

The room fell silent.  They all knew that the killer could be found and locked up, but it would be up to a jury and a judge to determine his punishment. 

The sheriff closed his eyes, speaking quietly,”I get tired of chasing criminals, risking my life to arrest them, and then finding them on the street before I get off my shift.  It’s why I left New York and moved to this small town.  Up until Lisa, all I had to deal with was an occasional drunk.”  The sheriff opened his eyes, looking at the two agents.  “I will do everything in my power to see that justice is done for this girl.  Come to me with anything, any assistance you need and it’s there for you.  Please don’t judge me by what others in my occupation have done.”

Solo looked at the sincerity of the man.   He had come into the station expecting to see a man who wouldn’t care because the victim was black.  He felt badly for judging him before even laying eyes on him. 

“I believe you,” he stood, offering his hand.  The sheriff took it, shaking his hand with a strong grip.  The two agents left the station, heading in a direction that scared Solo more than anything.

Chapter Eight

The drive to the house went by slowly with Illya angrily talking about the bigoted town’s people. 

“You’ve no idea what she went through living here.  She had two friends, me and the old man, and even that was denied her when the man’s daughter decided that Lisa was not the type she wanted her father to be acquainted with.”

“I’m not saying that there aren’t a lot of bigots here.  I’m just saying that not everyone feels that way.  I for one could care less about the color of a person’s skin or even the country they come from.”

That statement silenced the Russian almost immediately.

“I didn’t mean to imply that everyone living in OakWood was a bigot,” the Russian said quietly.  “Just that there are too many of them.”

“You know one day, I believe people will change.  We’ll all live in harmony and no one would even believe that people once thought differently.” Solo said with conviction.

“I hope so.  I’ve lived with my fair share of prejudice in my time in the west.  You know that Klan leader wasn’t too happy when they discovered I was Russian.  I kept a close eye on them whenever I was in town.”

Solo cast a sharp eye on his friend.  “You never told me that.  I would never have purchased the house if I had known they were a threat to you.  In fact I didn’t even know they were here when I bought the house.  I’m sorry Tovarish.”

“It’s not your fault.  Besides, if you looked for a house away from all the narrow-minded bigots of the world, you would never have found one.”

The truth of the statement settled in the car.  And then the atmosphere charged with tension as they approached Roy’s house.

“I never told her that I loved her,” the Russian said, staring intently at the house as Solo parked the car.

“I’m sure she knew,” Napoleon said.

 Illya leaned his head back, closing his eyes. “If I had it to do over again, I would tell her.  I was just so afraid of losing her.”

They were quiet for a few minutes.  Solo knew his friend was trying to gather his strength to go back into the house. 

“You stay here, I’ll question Roy.”

Illya opened his eyes, smiling indulgently at Solo.  “Thanks, but I must do this.”

“I understand,” Solo said.

Illya opened his door and headed for the house, Solo following closely behind.

The two agents found Roy sitting on the porch swing staring at a picture of Lisa.  He looked up when he heard their approach.  Illya sat next to the man, noticing how much he seemed to have aged in the last few days. 

“Roy, why don’t you come and stay with me?   It can’t be easy staying here with all the memories.”

“It’s all I have left.  I won’t leave it.”  Roy said, pain evident in each word.

Napoleon sat in a chair opposite Roy.  He looked at the two men, both suffering at the loss of a woman. 

“Mr. White we’re going to find the person who killed Lisa.  Is there anything you know that may be important?  Some person who hated Lisa, for example.”  Solo said.

Roy looked incredulously at Napoleon.  “It would be easier to give you a list of people who liked Lisa.  Most people around here hated her. Hated what she was.”

Napoleon knew Roy was telling the truth.  He had gone to his store on many occasions in the past.  Before Lisa moved here people would gather at the store and enjoying the country atmosphere.  There was always someone around telling Roy about their children or the football game they just won.  And then Lisa had arrived.  Suddenly, people who shopped there only did so because the nearest store was almost ten miles away.  No one spoke to him for more than a few seconds.  He was an isolated, lonely man.  Now he regarded him.  The price he had paid for staying in OakWood was high, too high.

“May I go up and look at Lisa’s room,” Illya asked.  “There may be something the sheriff’s office missed.”

“Sure, Illya, her room has been cleaned, but maybe…”

Napoleon looked expectantly at the Russian.  He didn’t think it was a good idea.  Not after the last time when the Russian mentally collapsed.  Still, he knew there was little he could do to stop the blond. 

Illya stood and headed for the stairs, Napoleon followed closely behind.

“Are you sure this is a good idea.  I mean, I could go in there, take a look around.  You can stay downstairs with Roy.”

The two men stood before the closed door of Lisa’s room.  The smell of antiseptic permeated the air, indicating the room had been cleaned after the police had gathered their evidence.  Now, Illya reached for the door knob, turning it and entering the room.

Napoleon entered the room first.  It was a small and simply decorated.  A twin sized bed sat perched between two nightstands.  A large painting of a beach hung on the wall.  The rug was a dark burnish orange with tiny splatters of brown near the bed.  It took Solo a few minutes to realize the splatters were Lisa’s blood.  He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him and turned to see a very pale Illya holding onto the door. Illya was shaking, trying to get control of his breath.  Napoleon grabbed his arm, leading him away from the door and onto a chair in the hall.   Napoleon pushed his head down between his legs, telling him to try to breath steadily.  Illya steadied his breathing and his breath returned to a normal pattern.

He looked up at Napoleon.  “Sorry,” he said.

“Its okay”    Ah… Illya… this is too much for you. I’ll go in.  You just stay here.”

Illya looked gratefully at his friend.  “I guess I don’t have a choice, considering.” 

Napoleon turned and walked back to Lisa’s bedroom. The first thing he did was to examine the red stains on the carpet.  It was blood, splattered on most of the rug.  He looked in a corner of the room and found a portrait of Lisa. Napoleon was saddened that such a young, lovely woman’s life had ended so tragically.  Somehow the portrait brought her alive.  He wished that he had taken the time to get to know her better.  He had met her when she first came to town.  She was vibrant, always smiling and she seemed to love her father, always doting on him.  Now she was dead and the hopes and dreams of a young woman destroyed forever.

Napoleon looked under the bed and discovered a box.  He pulled the box out and opened it, discovering numerous books written in French.  He pulled some of the books out and discovered several small notebooks.  The notebooks were written in French, probably diaries. Solo wondered at the shoddy police work that had allowed the box to remain, untouched beneath her bed.  But then this was a small town and the officers not trained to handle a murder case.  He picked up the box and headed out of the room.  

Chapter Nine

It was late in the evening.  Both agents were sitting in the library in the two chairs that sat near the fireplace.  Illya had recovered and was reading Lisa’s diary.  Occasionally, he would make a comment about the contents.  Listen, he’d said to Solo on one occasion.  This is about Lisa’s planned trip to America.

America.  They call it the land of opportunity.   I wonder.  Would their be opportunity for me, or is the Great American dream something reserved for other people.  Still, I’m excited.  I will see my father and live in his house. 

There were other diary entries about how she had been treated in OakWood.  About the Klan and their threats to her.  About how Roy had to physically restrain one man when he found out Roy had a black daughter.  But then there had been Mr. Finch, the old man that she often photographed.  She wrote of how he lived with his daughter in a rambling old house.  Lisa  wrote about how he’d been burned during a bombing in WWII and his life had been instantly altered.  She wrote about how the old man had been treated.  His wife left him with a young daughter to rear.  She couldn’t bear to live with the scars.  The old man lost all of his friends.  Most had deserted him when his physical appearance was no longer appealing, and so he lived with his daughter, sad and alone.

Mr. Finch had come to OakWood in the 1950s.  He’d hoped for a new life, maybe some friends.  But that was not to be.  At least not until Lisa came along.  Lisa wrote of the friendship she shared with him.  She saw in him a man who could understand the stares, the isolation, even if it was for a different reason.  Lisa wrote about Mr. Finch, telling his story.  And then the daughter had found out and put an end to the relationship.  Lisa wrote of the pain she felt at losing the friendship of the man, not for herself, but for him. 

He is alone now.  The daughter has ended our relationship and thus, the only friendship he has in this town.  I feel so sorry for him. He is old and doesn’t have many years left.   I was the only friend he had.  How long must we who are different suffer before the world opens its eyes and realizes that we are all equal?  That God created us in his image.

Illya closed his eyes.  He could hear the soft crackle of the fire.  Smell the scent of burning wood.  But he was no longer in the room with Napoleon.  He was miles away remembering when he had suffered because he was different.  He spoke in soft tones as he related the story to his friend for the first time.

“I was just a little boy, no more than seven at the time.  The Nazi’s came, killed my family.  Left me with nothing but the clothes on my back.  I saw my people starving in the streets.  Men, women, children crying in the night as they watched each other die.   I cried till there were no more tears left.  And then he came.  He gave me food, water, a place to live.  He treated me like I was dirt under his feet.  He fed me, then beat me.  He made me watch as my people died around me.  His was the first language I learned.  He taught me, taught me well.  All the while, making sure I knew that I was nothing, that I was worthless.  And the only reason he kept me around was for his amusement.”

Napoleon sat in stunned silence.  He didn’t know what to say.  Never before had he seen Illya in such pain.  He watched the Russian as he spoke, his voice monotone, his hands sitting limply on his lap, his eyes open, but far away, in Russia during World War II.

“You call it World War II, but we Russians call it The Great Patriotic War.  The Nazi’s were not kind to us.  When they invaded France they didn’t plan to kill the entire population.  But they considered us inferior, so they killed millions of us.  Millions, Napoleon, no one knows the exact figures.  They were men, women, and children.  They died for what?  To prove the superiority of one group over another?”

Illya stood, walking to the fireplace.  He stood there looking into the flames.  “I survived, but I died a million deaths.  I’m still dying now.”

Napoleon stood and crossed the room.  He looked at his friend as the Russian fought for control.  Illya had never been comfortable showing his emotions.  He’d hidden them from most at UNCLE, only revealing them to Napoleon on rare occasions.  But now this was one of those occasions.  The Russian needed him now more than ever.  He needed to know that he was loved and that his nationality meant only that he had been born in a different place. 

Without speaking, Napoleon reached for him, pulling him into his arms.  The Russian cried, his body yielding to the pain he had suffered so long ago and so recently. 

Chapter Ten

Napoleon had prepared Illya’s favorite breakfast.  Tea with jelly, and bacon and eggs.  The Russian sat across from him eating hungrily. 

“You know, I’m convinced this was a hate crime.  I think we need to go to the Klan headquarters and ask some questions.” Illya said.

“What about Dodd.  You said you had a fight with him recently.  He may have been angry enough to do something.” Solo said.

“No, he was pretty frightened of me.  I don’t think he would do anything to Lisa, least of all while I was still in town.”

Napoleon considered it.  “True.  I’ve seen you when you get angry.  But I think we need to check every possibility, no matter how remote.”

“Well.  I think we have to consider Carolyn as well.  She was pretty angry when I ended the relationship.”

“How angry?” Napoleon asked, his eyes meeting Illya’s.

“Angry enough to make some threats.  None of which I took seriously.  She also attacked me.”

“Attacked you.  You didn’t tell me that.”

“I wasn’t exactly proud.  I had pursued Carolyn against my better judgment.  We hadn’t met under the best circumstances.”

Napoleon remembered the circumstances.  Carolyn had unwittingly become a pawn in the hands of Thrush.  Thrush had come up with the ultimate plan of eliminating UNCLE as a Threat.  It was a good one—make sex slaves out of every UNCLE agent till all they wanted was sex.  The Russian had been one of the victims and Carolyn the seductress.

UNCLE soon put an end to the plan, making the Thrush devise ineffective.  Illya had continued his relationship with Carolyn much to Napoleon’s surprise.  It sounded like something he would have done—sleeping with the enemy.  The Russian had always been more level headed, warning him about his relationship with Angelique.  Still, for a while, Illya had seemed to be falling in love with Carolyn and then of course, Lisa came along.

“So how did she attack you,” Napoleon asked with concern.

“Slapped me mostly, tried to throw a few things at me.   I got out unharmed.”

“Still, she might have flown here and killed Lisa.  A woman scorned…”

“Yes.  I’ll check on her whereabouts.  Afterwards, we’ll pay a visit to Klan headquarters.”

“No.  You’ll check on Carolyn.  I’ll pay a visit to Klan headquarters.”

Illya took a bite of his toast.  “So why can’t I go?”

“Because, we want information, not a confrontation.”

Illya sat straight in his chair.  “I’m perfectly capable of getting information without a confor…,”

“You are, but the Klan has never been known to avoid confrontations and they hate Russians.  No.  You’ll stay here and I’ll go.  That’s an order.”

Illya took a sip of coffee.  “We’re not on official UNCLE business.  You can’t make it an order.”

“I can and  I’ll make it stick if I have to tie you to the chair, Tovarish.”

Illya locked eyes with Napoleon.  “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Good,” Napoleon said getting up from the table.  “You check on Carolyn’s whereabouts.”

“You be careful,” Illya admonished.   “They know you’re my friend.  They won’t take too kindly to a Soviet sympathizer.  Maybe you should even take the sheriff.”

Napoleon took a sip of coffee and headed for the telephone.

Two hours later Napoleon and the sheriff sat across the desk from Tom Horton the leader of the OakWood branch of the Ku Klux Klan.  Tom Horton was a young man with the all around good looks of a football player.  He sipped coffee as he eyed the two agents with his brown eyes, his blond hair glistening in the sunlight that streamed in through the open window above his desk.

 “Where were you the night Lisa White was killed?” the sheriff asked.

“Right here, of course.  We had a rally that night.”

“You mean a membership drive,” the sheriff countered.

“You can call it that if you want,” the man sat back in the chair, smiling confidently.

“Did you kill Lisa White?” Solo asked impatiently.

“You mean that …..,”

The sheriff slammed his hand on the desk, startling Tom and Solo.  “I gonna tell you right now,  I’ll have no name calling here.  You will call her Miss White or Lisa, you understand that.”  The sheriff’s face was red with anger.  Tom stammered, obviously affected by the outburst.  Napoleon was glad he had invited the sheriff along.  He could clearly see that he had an allay should anything happen. 

“Okay.  Okay, I get it.  But we didn’t kill Lisa.  She wasn’t worth the time.  Nowadays, we’ve got bigger fish to fry than some half-black girl of Roy’s.”

Solo leaned forward, getting in Tom’s face.  “I want proof.  You got any?”

Tom smiled confidently.  “Yeah.  I’ve got a film with the mayor himself attending our little rally.  I can show it to you if you like?”

Napoleon was shocked, but didn’t show it.  “Yeah, I like.”

Napoleon viewed the tape in Horton’s office.   The mayor was clearly seen on the tape, along with other prominent citizens of OakWood.  Napoleon was sickened, the tape and the mayor would provide an alibi for Horton but the man could still be lying.  There was nothing on the tape to indicate the date or the time.  

Later, Napoleon and the sheriff went to the mayor’s office.  The mayor claimed to have attended the rally only to make sure the group was not up to mischief.  Napoleon wasn’t sure he believed him, but the mayor was not his problem.  Finding proof of who murdered Lisa was. 

Solo asked if anyone had left the rally.  The mayor insured him that there were only ten people in attendance and he would have surely noticed if one of them had left. 

Solo left the mayors office and headed to Mr. Finch’s house.  He thought maybe Lisa had shared some information with him, considering the two had been friends for some time.  The sheriff accompanied Solo to the house.  He wanted to be completely involved in the investigation and Solo welcomed the company of the tall red-head.  Solo had considered going back and getting Illya for this leg of the investigation.  Still the Russian was too close to the situation and he lacked his usual analytical abilities.  It had to be hard to investigate the murder of the woman you loved. 

Solo focused his eyes on the road.  The Finch’s lived at least ten miles from Napoleon in what could only be described as the poorer part of town.  He surveyed the neighborhood as he drove.  Gone were the spectacular Victorian homes in favor of small homes that could only be described as shacks. 

Napoleon stopped before the Finch home.  It was a small, white frame building with a tiny porch and roses going around the front of the house.  He and the sheriff got out of the car and headed to the front door.  

“I hate to come here,” the sheriff remarked as they approached the door. 

“Why?” Solo asked.

“Have you seen him?  He’s so fragile and he and Lisa were friends.  It’s gonna be a tough  for him.”

“Yeah,” Napoleon said, his eyes cast downward. 

“I hope his daughter is here,” Solo added.

“Probably is.  She’s been sticking pretty close to him lately.  Not even allowing him out of the house.”

Solo knocked on the door.  He heard the slow approach of footsteps and half expected to see Mr. Finch.  Instead a dark-haired woman opened the door.  She was in her thirties with piercing blue eyes and her hair pulled into a severe bun.  She was plan—a woman who would never be beautiful and knew it.  She stared questioningly at the Napoleon for an instant then to the Sheriff.

“Good Afternoon Karen.  We have a few questions to ask your father if he’s available.”

“You mean about Lisa?” she asked, standing at the door as if she might shut it in their faces any moment.

The sheriff indicated Solo.  “This is Mr. Solo.  He's helping with this investigation.  We need to speak to anyone who knew Lisa.  It’s my understanding that she and your father were once close.”

“Yes, once.  But I had to put an end to it.  She simply was too much excitement for the  my father.  He is not a well man, as you know Sheriff.”

Karen said the last part while looking at Solo.

Napoleon had planned to let the Sheriff take the lead in this part of the questioning, but he could clearly see that Karen Finch was not about to  cooperate.

“We need to speak to him, Miss Finch.” Solo smiled which would have melted the hearts of most women.   Karen merely stared back at him.  Solo cleared his throat and continued,   “He may still have information that may lead us to his killer.”

Solo watched as Karen steeled her body.  “I will not put my father in danger for a woman who is already dead.  A woman who was murdered.  I will thank you both to leave my property now.”

Solo was prepared to argue, but Karen spoke again, her voice harsh,”Unless you have a search warrant, I suggest you find someone else to help with your investigation.”

“Miss, Finch,” the sheriff started.  “It will only take a few moments and…”

“Court order gentlemen,” she repeated.  And the door was slammed in their faces.

Chapter Eleven

Solo returned home that night tired and dejected.  A whole day of searching for information and nothing had been accomplished. 

The Russian was sitting in the library reading over more of the diaries when Napoleon entered.

“So how did it go, Illya?  Find anything?”

“Nothing.  Carolyn was at her sister’s wedding.  No way she could have gotten here and then killed Lisa.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.  The sister married a man in Japan.  That’s at least a fifteen hour flight.  No she’s not the one.  What about the Klan?”

“They’ve got film and the mayor to vouch for their whereabouts.  It seems our little hate group had a membership rally.”

“A membership rally?”

“Yes, mostly unsuccessful.  Only a few people attended.”

“Damn,” the Russian said, slapping the diary on the table and pacing the floor. 

“Then what do we have.  Nothing.  Three days and nothing.”

Solo poured some vodka in two glasses, offering one to Illya who took it gratefully.  The Russian sat back down in the chair and took a long swig from the glass. 

“That leaves Dodd.” Illya said.

“What’s say we pay him a visit in the morning?”

Illya locked eyes with Solo.  “How about late in the afternoon, I think I feel the need to get a little drunk my friend.”

“Sounds like a plan.”  Napoleon got up and retrieved the bottle of Vodka.  He sat the bottle between them.  The two men spent the rest of the evening getting happily drunk.

The sharp banging on the door awakened both men.  They were still in the library because they had been too drunk to walk up the stairs. 

 “My head, please tell whoever it is to stop knocking.” Solo said.

“I don’t think they can hear us,” Illya said, clutching his head.  “One of us will need to go to the door and insist they stop.”

Solo sat forward in his chair then flopped helplessly back.  “That will be you, Tovarish.”

“Why me?”

“When my head stops hurting I’ll figure that out and tell you.”

Illya stood, rubbing his head.  “You have any aspirins?”

“Yes, in my bedroom.”

Illya headed for the door. 

“Bring some back for me and please hurry and open that damned door.” Napoleon said pleadingly.

Napoleon was lying back in the chair massaging his head when he heard a crashing sound.  He hurried from the room and found a man and Illya fighting on the floor.  The man was large with tattoos on his arm.  Napoleon knew it had to be Dodd.  He ran forward and broke up the two men.  Dodd was practically hyperventilating as he stood

“How dare you.  It’s your fault she’s dead.  Your fault.” He said between gasps.    “If you hadn’t come to town, she’ll still be alive.”

Illya was shaking with anger.  Napoleon standing between them was all that kept the men apart. 

“I believe you did it.  You’re the one that threatened us.  Where were you on the night of her death?  Were you at her house killing her?” the Russian shouted.

“No, damnit, don’t you see I loved her.”  Dodd crumbled to the floor.  “I loved her.  That’s why I was so angry when I saw you two together.  I wanted to hurt her for rejecting me, but I would never kill her.  Never.”

The big man sat on the floor, his  sad eyes seeking understanding.   Illya watched incrediously.

“You’ve got a strange way of showing it.” Illya said.

“I was afraid.  Afraid of what people would say.  I was afraid for her.  If people saw us together… I’m a truck driver.  I wouldn’t always be here to protect her.”

Illya looked at the man, the truth of the statement etched in his face.  “He’s right, Napoleon.  She was killed because of me.”  He turned and left the room, heading upstairs. 

Solo helped Dodd to his feet.  “Get up.  I’ve got questions.”

Solo led him to the kitchen and prepared a fresh cup of coffee.  Dodd sat there while the coffee brewed saying nothing, his eyes cast downward.  Solo worried about his friend’s hasty retreat until the Russian returned with the aspirins.  Solo sat three cups of coffee on the table and sat down, swallowing the two aspirin with the strong brew.

“Can you prove your whereabouts, Mr. Dodd?” Solo asked.

“Yes.  I’m a truck driver.  Many people saw me at a hotel I frequent.  I spent the night with a waitress I know.  She can vouch for me.”

“Okay.  I will need her telephone number and address.  Anyone else?”

“Yeah.  Lots of people saw me at the restaurant.”

Illya was silently drinking his coffee.  Napoleon knew the Russian was still blaming himself.  It was going to be a long night. 

“You know anyone who would want to kill Lisa?”

“Yeah, the whole damned town.  Most of it at least.  The rest would stand idly by while it was done.”

Illya winced at the words. 

“Anyone specific?”

“The Klan.  They’re a small group, but you know their reputation,” Dodd answered.

“We checked on them.  Nothing, all present and accounted for.” Solo replied.

“Then I don’t know.  Could be anyone.  Someone we don’t know maybe.  How’d this person get in by the way?”

“Broke in,” Illya said distractedly.  “Broke in and shot her in the face.”

Dodd noticeably pailed.  “Not the face, she was so beautiful.  Not the face.”

“When did you find out,” Napoleon asked.

“This morning, when I got in.  Somebody told me at the coffee shop.  Came right over here.  Sorry about that.”  Dodd looked down at the table.

“Listen, if you guys don’t have anymore questions, I need to get going.” Dodd said.

“I can’t think of anything.  I’ll check your alibi, but that’s all.” Solo said.

Dodd got up, looking at Illya who still sat at the table drinking his coffee. The Russian didn’t meet his gaze.

Dodd turned and left the room, Solo leading the way. 

Napoleon returned to the kitchen and found the Russian still sitting at the table, staring into his cup of coffee.

“He’s right.  I did this.  It’s my fault.” Illya said slowly.

Solo took the chair opposite Illya.   “We’ve been over this.  It’s not your fault.  It’s the killers fault.”

“No.  If I hadn’t insisted on being seen with her.  Going out in public.  Defying the conventions of this town…”

“She may still be dead,” Napoleon continued.

Illya looked expectantly at Solo. “We don’t know that, do we?  We still don’t know who killed her and why.”

“We’ll find out.” Solo insisted.

“Waverly, how much time is he going to give us to search for the killer?”

“I don’t know.  He’s giving us time, that’s all I know.”

“I was a mess, wasn’t I?  I can believe I didn’t even recognize you.”

“You were in shock.  Don’t feel badly about that,” Napoleon said.

Illya leaned his head into his hands.  “What have I done?  She may be dead because of me.”

“Illya, we’re going to find this killer.  And it will be soon.  I think the answer is not racially motivated.  I think the answer is in her photographs or diaries.  I took the liberty of stopping by Roy’s on the way back today.  He gave me an album of her photographs.  I think it’s there somewhere.  We’ve just got to find it.  How about we take a look?”

“I guess so, what else have we?”

Two hours later both men sat on the floor of the library looking through some of Lisa’s photographs.  Lisa had put them in an album.  Napoleon noted that each picture told a story.  The little girls dancing in the moonlight showed them when they arrived, how they spoke animatedly to each other and then finally danced, oblivious to the world around them.

And then there was the picture of the scarred old man.  Lisa had devoted many pages to him.  Napoleon was saddened by the pictures.  The emotions of the man practically ripped through the page and assualted the viewer with his raw pain.  Solo couldn’t help but think how the man must have lived since the burns had ravaged his face and his life.  What must he have been like before the burns? 

He turned the page and saw a picture of Karen sitting with the old man.   Solo recalled the story about the daughter and remembered how she had prevented him from questioning her father.  He didn’t mention it to Illya.  He wanted him as far from the investigation as possible.  He pictured what would have happened had the Russian accompanied him to the Finch house.  Illya most likely would have barged into the house, court order be damned.

“I’m surprised she allowed this picture to be taken,” Solo said, still looking at the picture. 

“I told Lisa the same thing.  It seems she was sitting in the park with Mr. Finch and Lisa took the picture.  His daughter, I think her name is Karen, seemed happy enough to have her picture taken, but later told Lisa to stay away.”

“Strange,” Solo said.  “Why would she suddenly change?”

Illya locked eyes with Napoleon.  “You’re not thinking she had anything to do with Lisa’s murder?”

“No not at all.  Just a thought.  How’s your hangover?” Napoleon asked changing the subject.

“Getting better. How is your’s?

“I’ve seen better days,” Solo replied. “

TBC