the word Meinstag printed on a gold-plated tag under the knife. It was exactly the same as the knife from the stump that I now had tucked away in my fanny pack in the truck. And although no expert, I would have bet it was an equal brother to the blade Nate Brown was using on the sawgrass bud as he sat on my dock yesterday morning.
“Gentlemen. Anything I can help you with?”
The clerk had put the guns away and shed the boys-with-toys couple. I hoped it was because he could see the more appreciative demeanor in Billy’s eyes and the real money in his clothes.
“What’s the history behind this piece?” I asked, pointing out the German knife.
“Ah, the Meinstag,” the clerk started. “German-crafted as only they could do it back in the thirties.”
I knew we were going to get a sales pitch, but the guy wasn’t just spinning a rehearsed speech. From a deep pocket, he pulled out a ring of keys attached to a long rope chain and unlocked the display case.
“This was a special knife. Handcrafted long before the German war machine started cranking out weaponry in mass for World War II.”
He took the knife out like a jewelry salesman showing an expensive tennis bracelet and put a black piece of felt down before setting the knife on the glass counter.
“There were probably a thousand of them made at most.” He picked it up after neither of us made a move to touch the piece and held it lightly in his thick stubby fingers.
“Very high quality German steel,” he said, drawing a finger down the backside of the blade. “And the curve in the blade made it especially versatile for everything from hunting and skinning to cutting lines and even carving. The folding style was well ahead of its time.”
We watched him snap the hinged instrument closed and then easily reopen it.
“The bulk of them were issued to Germany’s elite mountain troops, fighters who were skilled woodsmen and would spend weeks in the wilderness on advance missions out past the front lines.”
The salesman was a short, fleshy man, probably in his late forties with a shiny pate. His jowly face was so closely shaved I could see the high red capillaries just below the skin.
“And they got here …” I spoke each word slowly, trying to urge the story on.
“They were coveted by American soldiers in battle. After a fight with the mountain troops the GIs would go over the bodies or disarm the survivors and pocket the knives for themselves, especially the guys who could appreciate them. They brought them home when they got discharged and there’s still a few of them out in circulation. Collector’s items. Like this one.”
He put the knife back on the velvet and stood back, folding his forearms over his broad belly and patiently waiting for the inevitable question of price.
Neither Billy nor I made a move to touch the knife.
“Well, thanks for your time,” I said. “It’s certainly an interesting piece.”
I could see the disappointment in the man’s face. He prided himself on reading serious customers.
“I could let it go for thirteen hundred,” he said as we started away.
“Thanks,” Billy said, smiled his GQ smile, and turned with me.
“You’re not going to find another one like it,” the clerk called out, not knowing how wrong he was.
Neither of us spoke on the way to the Cherokee. When we got in I got my fanny pack out of the backseat and took the knife out of the sealed plastic bag I took from Billy’s kitchen.
“Nate Brown?” Billy said.
“World War II hero who takes out a whole nest of German mountain troops and brings back a few mementos,” I said, running it through my head.
“S-So who d-does he give them out to?”
“Three that I’m pretty sure of. Gunther, Blackman and Ashley. But who knows who else? He could have brought back a dozen. He could have a lot of so-called acquaintances out in the Glades. But I doubt there’s too many wacked out enough to get into a plan to kill kids.”
“There was at 1-least one.”
“Yeah, but he’s dead,” I said, putting the knife back in my pack.
CHAPTER 24
The late afternoon rain clouds had walled off the western sky by the time we reached the ranger station boat ramp and the air blew warm and moist out of the Glades. No one was at the station and Cleve’s Boston Whaler was gone from the dock. It seemed odd that he’d be out