CHAPTER 10 - Impasse

The former German actress halted immediately, her mind in a panic. Because she'd been gone all day today, she'd missed the fateful phone call revealing that Hans Landa had been discharged from the hospital. The more pressing question was if he had a weapon on him right now that he'd soon be using on her. Her gun and knives were all inside the house, as were other supplies she'd purchased in the chance that he should be foolish enough to return. And yet, she'd been the stupid one, to think she'd be safe inside her domicile when he arrived, aiming at the back of his head through her drawn curtains. Instead, she'd been ambushed by him in the very same chair she'd been ambushed in.

"Ah, Fraulein," Landa said pleasantly, his eyes never leaving hers. He was neither smiling nor frowning. "You've come home. I see you've helped yourself to my car while I've been gone."

"What are you doing here?" she spat, a scowl on her face. Her vision shook as she spoke, adrenaline coursing through her veins. "Are you crazy, or just stupid?"

It was then that he pulled a long brown shaft towards his body. A rifle. She froze in place, her jaw slack.

He shoved the wooden crutch under his armpit and pulled himself to a standing position. His back was ramrod straight, hair completely covering his forehead scar, biceps and triceps bulging under his shirtsleeves.

Her relief was short-lived; at the sight of his body, she let out a little gasp.

Not only had Hans Landa returned, but he had seemingly gained musculature. The shirt he had worn to kill her roughly a month ago was practically skin-tight now, showing off his sizable chest and arm muscles. Would he try to beat her to death with his crutch now? He might very well succeed.

"I heard you visited me in the hospital," Landa said with a friendly smile, after smoothly shifting his whole body to face Bridget. "May I ask why?"

Ugh. How could everything that came out of the man's mouth make her so damn uncomfortable?

"Need you ask?" she replied as coolly as possible.

"As a matter of fact, I do need to ask, because visiting me in the hospital at such a juncture in your recovery seems unusual." He took a confident step towards her, the crutch blending in seamlessly with his stride. "I mean—let's face it—at that point, you could have ditched the whole husband-wife façade and revealed the true nature of our relationship. Yet you did not. I want to know why."

It was a valid question. When she'd visited him, she'd considered telling the grim older nurse who'd stood beside her in the doorway. She considered telling her of Landa's Nazi past, of his rape and attempted murder of her. The main issue that had made her resist divulging all of this was that if he was indeed a Nazi fugitive who had come to murder her, the police would become involved and they would have to collect evidence from her home and his car. She herself would be thoroughly questioned and investigated. Being as Hans Landa had found her new name and home all by himself, the police would surely discover her falsified identity and status as a "triple agent." In fact, it was Hans Landa who was living in the U.S. under his own name and merits. She was living as a criminal, a fugitive from justice. How would she even give birth in an American hospital, if the need should arise? She couldn't very well give birth alone in her home.

"I want to know why you are here," she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. They were at an impasse in her front yard. He was blocking the way to her front door at the moment and was close enough that if she took off running towards the door now, he could possibly reach it before she could shut and lock it.

"I asked first!" he gleefully replied.

"I was going to kill you," she spat. "But I changed my mind."

"How so?" he said, his amusement seemingly growing by the second. "By smothering me with a pillow? Strangling me with a stethoscope? I'd love to know how you planned on accomplishing that."

"Like I just told you, I changed my mind."

"I see," was the reply. "I am to assume, then, that this is a method of killing that you are willing to attempt again, being as you can't even divulge to me what it was—is!," he said. He leaned heavily on his crutch, looking thoughtful as he stroked his prominent chin. "Something quiet, that could be done in a hospital, but something that can also be done outside out of a hospital."

"I never thought you'd be stupid enough to come back here," Bridget retorted. "So in fact, I hadn't been—"

"Poisoning!" he announced gleefully. His eyes locked on hers, which apparently revealed too much. A smile crept over his lips, exposing his shiny teeth. "Bingo."

Although she was standing out in the open, on the sidewalk between her front yard and her home, Bridget felt like a cornered animal. How could a middle-aged man with one leg strike such fear into her heart?

She needed to get in the house, where she'd have the advantage. But how? She needed him to get out of the way, to leave. No way would she attempt to walk to the door while he was standing only several feet away.

She was closer to the car than he was. Could she run back to the car, start it, and drive before he could get there? What would happen if she simply ran him over in her front yard?

Now she regretted not divulging to anyone of his attempting to kill her. If she did indeed run him over in her front yard right now, she'd be the guilty party. There'd be nothing to investigate on his side; he was the Medal of Honor recipient Hans Landa, and she was the triple agent Bridget von Hammersmark, a German agent under an assumed name, hired by Germany to take care of a German traitor.

Shit.

But then, his house was in Nantucket. Her home was here. How could that be explained?

The car idea was looking better and better with each passing second. In fact, if no one saw her run him over, she could simply stuff his flattened body in the trunk of the car and dump it somewhere else. Now that he was missing most of a leg, he'd be lighter than usual, even with the extra muscles.

Her thought process was interrupted by Landa.

"Why don't we continue this conversation inside?" he suggested, gesturing towards her house and then fanning himself with a hand. "It's so darn humid out here!"

"You're kidding, right?" she spat. "As if I'd ever let you into my house after what you did to me."

"Oh? And what of this?" he said, gesturing to his leg. "I, in fact, have been harmed far worse by you, but I'm willing to risk it again to further our conversation inside."

"I didn't cut off your leg."

He began to chuckle, leaning heavily onto the crutch for support as his chuckle turned into a full throaty laugh.

"Maybe you can appreciate the irony!" he exclaimed. "You yourself were shot in the leg mere months ago, in La Louisiane—that filthy little hole in the ground—but somehow you were able to keep your leg, even attend a premier!—with your wound. I was shot in your bedroom and lost my leg to infection. Either German doctors must be far better than American ones, or you are a very bad housekeeper."

"German veterinarians," she corrected, her eyes not leaving his.

Now he was laughing so loudly that she was afraid neighbors might peek out their windows. His eyes were shut tightly and it seemed as if he were having the time of his life, imaging such a scenario—Bridget von Hammersmark, the German starlet, getting operated on in a veterinarian's office. It gave her an opportunity to run. She fingered the keys in her hand, finding the house key and locking it in between index finger and thumb. Feeling a burst of energy, she suddenly leapt off the sidewalk and sprinted across the grass towards her front door.

She was going to make it! He was still laughing, not appearing to notice that she was dashing for the front door. Finally she could smile knowing that although he laughed, the joke was ultimately on him. She took a quick glance at the key, already in the proper orientation to meet the lockset.

Suddenly, Landa's hand shot out and grabbed her by the forearm, a calloused, dry hand that locked on her flesh.

Screaming, Bridget yanked her arm away from him. It felt as if she'd dislocated her shoulder from the sheer force of her pull. Landa was thrown off-balance and stumbled forward, his unencumbered hand reaching out to lean on the door and push himself back up. Now close enough to the door, she shoved the key in the lock and turned the knob.

She pushed the door open and staggered into the house, immediately correcting her stride to spin around and shove the door shut again behind her. When her eyes found the door, Landa was right there, his eyes wide open as he lunged himself toward the inside of the house, shoulders squared off like a linebacker and his crutch seemingly being used to propel his body further.

Landa landed with a thud and grunt onto his stomach, his entire upper body now across the threshold.

"Was this all really necessary, Fraulein?" he commented, his eyes looking up at hers from his position on the floor.

Bridget gulped. Landa was too far into the house for the door to be able to eject him again. How quickly could he get up? Probably faster than she'd predict. She had no time to fetch her handgun from the bedroom. Her knives were at hand, however. Taking two steps towards the kitchen, Bridget yanked her cabinet drawer open and grabbed the largest weapon she could find.

A large butcher knife loomed above his head, its point less than a foot from its target.

"Get out," Bridget snarled. "Get out or I will bury this in your skull."

Hans Landa's eyes met hers but there was not a bit of fear in them. Rather, he looked as if he were deeply considering the ramifications of that action. In fact, he seemed disappointed. It took all the willpower she had not to lunge at him and finish him.

"Have you not done enough to me?" he spat irritably. "I'm a cripple now, no thanks to you. You've not a single mark on you that I've put there."

"What about this," she growled, clutching her swollen abdomen with her free hand. "Do you think I wanted this?"

Landa's response was unexpected. He smiled at her.

"Ah—so relieved you brought it up," he said, beginning to rise to his feet. "It's just what I wanted to talk to you about."

Bridget glared him down, her grip on the knife strengthening. He looked up briefly from his efforts and froze in place.

"Stay where you are."

The former Nazi scoffed from his lowly, vulnerable position, peering up at her almost giddily.

"What, do you expect me to believe you'd do such a thing in view of your neighbors, at your front door, no less?" he asked her, a patronizing, silly grin on his face.

"Ha," she scoffed. "You forget that you tried to kill me in the front yard. Apparently no one saw that."

"I would argue that I did kill you, and then I resuscitated you," was his quick reply as he pulled himself onto his intact knee, using his crutch as a counterweight. "Now, can we return to the subject at hand?"

"That being—"

"The child." Now he was standing, his shoulder leaning against the doorjamb, crutch firmly beneath his armpit. In his shorts, he looked almost boyish.

"I see no child here," she retorted, solemnly shaking her head. "I see the product of being violated by you."

Landa took a tentative hop-step into the house. Bridget backed up, still holding the knife.

"Well, if that's how you feel about it," he said with a shrug, "I'd be willing to take the product off your hands once you've given birth."

"What? To kill it like all those Jewish families you had slaughtered?"

His eyes focused on something far away, the corner of his mouth twitching at the thought. Now he appeared to be uncomfortable, and was no longer smiling.

"No," he said, his eyes moving to gaze at her swollen belly. "Certainly not."