Martin tried to assure his wife that this isn't what it looks like. That he had good reasons for what was happening. This man broke into their house. He is a danger to her. He must be stopped.
But the image of a man, even a man who had been harassing her and her husband, strung up in her basement couldn't comport with what Martin was saying. This wasn't stopping an intruder. This was torture.
"You don't know your husband, Anna," Indy said, shouting over Martin. "He's not who you think he is. He's a Nazi. He used to string up Jewish prisoners just like this."
Martin turned around and sent a vicious slap across Indy's face.
"Mom," Chris stepped in. "I know this must be unsettling. But you have to let me and dad take care of this. Just go upstairs and forget that you ever saw this. By tomorrow it will be like it never happened."
Anna's eyes darted back and forth, from her son to her husband and finally to the beaten and bruised neighbor hanging like a rotten piece of meat from the ceiling.
"Don't turn away, Anna," Indy continued. "Your husband's real name is Gottfried Friedrich Bauer. He ran a concentration camp during World War II. He has deceived you for years, but you know he's not who he says he is. On some base level, you know your husband is a liar."
Anna backed away slowly. "I'm going to the police. Whatever is the truth here, they will get to the bottom of it."
"Anna, don't," Martin pleaded. "I can't spend the remaining time I have left in jail. They won't understand why I had to do this, why I had to defend my family."
"The man I knew wouldn't do this. He couldn't do this. At least, the man I thought I knew."
"Your husband has done so much worse," Indy said. "He built a career persecuting Jews and then masquerading as one to protect himself. He will stop at nothing."
"Will you shut him up," Martin yelled at his son.
Chris pulled a bandana through Indy's mouth like he was tacking a horse and tied it tightly behind his head.
"Anna," Martin pleaded. "You know me. You know I don't do anything without a reason. We have been together for over thirty years. Don't throw that away."
"No. I don't think I do know you, Fredrick," she responded. "I don't think I've ever truly known you. On some level, deep down, I knew you were hiding something. You've never been fully open and honest with me. And I just ignored it. Pretended like everything was fine."
"Are you really going to believe a total stranger, a man who broke into our home, over your husband?"
"I'm not saying I believe him. But I do know this is wrong, even if he did break into our house as you say. I'm going to the police, Frederick. If you had a reason for this, then they will listen." And with that she started up the steps.
The basement walls trapped and amplified the gunshot, causing a ringing in Indy's ears. Chris looked at his mother as she dropped and then slid down several steps, and then his gaze turned to his father stone still with a luger in his hand. He fired two more shots.
Chris rushed to his mother's side, but he found her unresponsive, lifeless.
"You know it had to be done," Martin said emotionless. "I tried. I tried to reason with her, but you know how unreasonable your mother can be."
"How dare you talk about her like that," Chris screamed. "Not when she's lying dead on the floor."
"I didn't do this for me. I did it for you, Chris. I'm at the end of my time, but you still have a life. What would have happened if your mother went to the police? Now, let's finish this."
Chris straightened up, and with the stature of child who had obedience beaten into him, he picked up a ligature to use on their captive.
Anna's interruption and unfortunate death had drawn the attention of Martin and his son, giving Indy precious time. For Martin, those days of running a concentration camp were a long ways behind him. He no longer had the strength to tie a rope like he once did. The loops around Indy's wrists weren't as tight as they needed to be, and just hanging from the ceiling, they became looser. With the sudden interruption, Indy was able to free himself, but still hung on waiting for the right moment to make his escape. He had escaped Martin's knots, but freedom lay beyond his two captors and at least two doors.
First, he had to take Martin's gun off the board. From there, he could improvise.
Martin turned towards Indy and ordered his son to kill their captive. "We have one more task. Once it is over, then we can forget about tonight."
Martin held firmly to his luger. If Indy dropped down and charged him, then he would have time to get one or two shots off. His escape would be over before it began. He needed greater reach.
Holding tightly to the wooden beam he had been tied to, Indy kicked the luger out of Martin's hand, sending it in a satisfying arc into a pile of boxes. Dodging Chris's grasp, Indy picked up his crowbar, which still lay next to the portrait of Trude Steiner.
"You're not leaving this basement. It will be your tomb," Chris said.
Indy sent two blows of the crowbar into Chris's torso, but they only caused him to grunt in mild discomfort. Changing tactics, Indy used the crowbar to smash the lone, naked lightbulb, draping the room in darkness. It was important that Martin not recover the luger. The only light shone through the small basement windows, and as their eyes adjust, Indy beat a quick retreat by backing into the wall.
He felt a sting. And then another. He looked up, and the light that streamed into the basement from the streetlamps revealed beyond the dust mites that hung lazily in the air, an extensive nest of wasps. It was lodged into the wooden beams and floorboards and looked like pulped paper, impressive in its intricacy. Those wasps that had so befuddled Martin since he moved in were hiding right here all along.
Quickly, Chris was on Indy, hovering above him. He took two more blows from the crowbar, but blocked them with his arms, showing only mild discomfort. He returned two punches of his own, almost sending Indy to the ground.
If Chris wasn't in his prime, then he wasn't far past it. He had over forty years of youth on Indy. Even with a weapon, Indy could no longer muster a hit that would cause enough damage or even get past his defenses.
Instead, he hit the wasp nest. He stepped back and riled up the wasps with his crowbar, sending the wasps into defense mode. A couple bit Indy, but by this time, Chris was standing right under the nest, and the whole swarm apparently believe him to be a danger. The more Chris flailed his arms, the more aggressive the wasps became.
As Chris stepped back, he stumbled over his own feet, falling to the ground. But the wasps were relentless. As he continued to struggle, Chris left open his defenses, allowing Indy to strike two blows to the head with his crowbar. Indy fled the wasps, and they no longer perceived Chris's still body as a threat.
Martin was still guarding the basement stairs. He held a now lit kerosine lantern in one hand and a metal pipe in the other. The lamp lit his face from below, giving it a ghostly aura. He put down the lamp and grasped the pipe with two hands.
"You will not get out of here alive, Indiana Jones."
"It's over, Fred. You and I can walk out of here and call the cops together. Turn yourself in. If you do, they might be lenient on your son. He spent his entire life devoted to you, doing what you wanted. It's time to pay back some of that loyalty."
"You invade my home and cause the death of my wife, and you expect me to just let you leave?"
"You fired the shots, not me. It's time to stop running. Stop blaming others."
Martin rushed at Indy, unleashing a feral scream. Before Indy could swing his crowbar, Martin bashed his fingers, forcing it to the ground with a metallic clank. He continued to pound his enemy with the pipe, knocking Indy to the floor.
And then, as if killing his enemy with anything but his bare hands would do, Martin clamped his fingers around Indy's throat.
Exhausted from being strung up and his battle with Chris, Indy couldn't muster the strength to push Martin off him. The crowbar had fallen far outside of his grasp, but Martin's pipe was still near lingering just out of his orbit. He reached for it, the tips of his fingers able to barely roll the pipe towards him. But before he could grasp the weapon, Martin kicked it out of reach, sending it clanking across the room and knocking over the kerosine lamp.
The oil spilled across the floor spreading the fire across boxes and various nick knacks. When it reached the bags of fertilizer, the flames shot up to the ceiling.
Martin continued to squeeze Indy's throat undeterred. He seemed ready to die so long as Indy shared his fate or perhaps his immediate personal danger was of little concern when measured against his desire for revenge.
Indy's head became hazy as the light from the fire flushed through the basement. He could feel his hold on Martin's hands loosening.
Indy looked to his side to see the portrait of Trude Steiner. It really was masterful, capturing youth cut down by tragedy. In the few times he saw it in person, the painting never failed to give Indy chills even as he was enthralled by its beauty. He supposed if Klimt's work was the last thing he was going to see in this life, then there was something fitting about that. Trude Steiner could usher him into the beyond.
But it was not meant to be. Something stirred in the painting, an otherworldly glow hummed on its surface. At first Indy thought the effect was the result of his low oxygen, but the glow grew brighter until finally even Martin noticed, pulled from his singular mission of crushing the life from his enemy.
When the painting's glow crescendo, a ghostly figure emerged. Its appearance was quick, so quick it was nearly difficult for perception. But it contained the outline of arms and a head. It headed straight to Martin, knocking him off Indy and smothering him. He gave out a cry that was quickly extinguished.
Indy stood up carefully, his fingers gently rubbing his throat. Martin stood at his feet, eyes wide open and his body unnaturally twisted. He wasn't breathing. The painting no longer had its glow, and the only light now came from the rapidly expanding fire.
Concerned first with the preservation of the stolen paintings, Indy smashed the basement window with the crowbar and then cleared out the remaining glass around the edges. He tossed the dozen or so paintings that Martin had stored together in the wooden container out onto the yard, trying to get them as far away from the house as possible.
He found some discarded rags and used them to guard his hands as he attempted to pull himself up and out of the window. But the fight had taken too much out of him. His arms screamed in pain until they no longer responded to desire to pull himself up. He attempted to scale the basement wall with his feet, but every time, he slid back down.
The heat and smoke from the expanding fire were becoming unbearable. His breathing slowed, and he became unsteady on his feet. He could no longer even hold onto the window edge. At least the paintings were saved, Indy thought. If recovering a piece of the past was his final act in his life, then there was something fitting about that. He had saved some of humanity, artifacts that could tell us how others have seen the world. What is the Portrait of Trude Steiner but a physical manifestation of grief and mourning. Saving that was worth it.
Indy felt a hand clamp his shoulder, and he looked to find Chris towering above him. He didn't have the energy to climb out the basement window much less continue his fight with Chris. He slumped his shoulders in resignation.
And then Chris kneeled down and made a step with his hands for Indy. He helped Indy out the window and then followed just as the fire spread to the entire basement.
Exhausted, the two lay face up on the grass. The stars shone brighter than usual, but eventually their shine was obscured by the fire engulfing the house. Indy could hear sirens in the distance. They were growing louder.