You'll Thank Me for This

by Nina Siegal

  Grace hadn’t thought a lot afterward about the idea that Martijn and Pieter had been “friends.” She had assumed it had been an overstatement on his part, perhaps to make her feel more confident. But now, as she rifled through this folder, with the photograph of her and Pieter as young lovebirds, she wondered: was it possible that Martijn had somehow known them without her knowing him? There turned out to be a lot of pictures of the two of them way back when, as well as a copy of Pieter and Grace’s wedding invitation from 1998. That was definitely odd. How could she not have known him then?

  They’d held the ceremony in the tiny garden of a friend’s house in Muizenberg, near the bar where they’d met two years earlier; way too many people were crammed into the space, but there was lots of music. They’d told everyone to bring an instrument, and just as they exchanged rings, the whole backyard filled with cacophonous sound, and there was playing and singing and dancing until dawn. Even if they’d actually known Martijn back then, he would not have fit into that scene.

  Grace started to have a strange tickling feeling in the back of her throat, and when she swallowed it seemed like she was trying to digest a big lump of something hard and prickly.

  What could be the explanation for this? She pawed through the other documents in the file and saw other artifacts of Pieter and Grace’s old life—more discolored photographs of the two of them taken from afar. They were weird pictures, not images she’d ever seen before, and definitely not taken by anyone in her family. There was nothing intimate or familial about them. They again seemed to be pictures taken by someone who was observing them, from quite a distance. Maybe even spying on them. Yes, that was it. “Surveilling” was the word. These seemed to be images taken by a private detective or maybe Dutch intelligence, or even an FBI agent? To what end? For what purpose?

  It was, in a word, creepy. Surveillance images of Pieter, and not just of Pieter but also of Grace and even of little Karin when she was just a toddler. Once she understood the unlikely and, well, rather creepy perspective of these images, she started to look at the rest of the paperwork in the file in a different way.

  These were records of their whereabouts, lists of times and places of their trips. Obviously trips Pieter had taken for his work—for reporting—but also, it seemed, some family trips. The records continued on through their move to the Netherlands, which had happened just before Grace gave birth to Karin. There was also a photograph of tiny baby Karin in the arms of Grace, with Grace’s mother—now long dead. None of these had been taken up close; apparently they had been again taken with a zoom lens, since they too were extremely grainy.

  Who had taken these pictures? And why hadn’t Grace known about them? Grace remembered that once or twice Pieter had mentioned that he was probably being spied on, and at least once AIVD, the Dutch national security agency, had contacted his newspaper editor about images he’d published possibly compromising state security. But he’d never told Grace that there was an actual file on him.

  Beyond all that, what was Martijn doing with this file? Had someone given it to him? And if so, why? What would he have wanted with it?

  Her head was spinning—not metaphorically but physically. She had to lie down, and did so in spite of the knowledge that insects of the netherworld definitely dwelled in the coarse threads of this rug. She lay still and kept her eyes closed for a moment to try to stop the rotation, and then opened them when it didn’t stop. She looked up and tried to anchor her vision to the ceiling beams. That worked better. She’d come up here looking for answers but had found only reasons to ask more questions.

  Okay, she thought, there must be a perfectly logical explanation for what she had found. Maybe Pieter had somehow gotten his hands on his own AIVD or FBI file—people could request those these days, couldn’t they?—and he’d just given it to Martijn, his accountant, for safekeeping. After all, he trusted his accountant with his money—and also his history, like a kind of human safe-deposit box. Wasn’t that what had attracted Grace to Martijn too? His sense of solidity and safety, a rock in a constantly fluctuating sea? Both of them had latched on to him for that reason.

  Her eyes stayed fixed on two particularly large ceiling beams that looked like something taken from a seventeenth-century seafaring vessel. They probably had been stripped from a seventeenth-century seafaring vessel. All these houses, probably all the buildings in the city, were built with repurposed materials from old ships.

  Grace took a deep breath. It wasn’t such a big deal, any of this, right? Anyway, how did it relate to what was going on with Martijn and her now? Did these pieces even belong to the puzzle she was trying to put together, about what was going on in their own marriage? They seemed like they were puzzle pieces thrown together from two totally different boxes. Both strange. But probably wholly unrelated.

  None of this mattered for the moment. This couldn’t be what he was hiding. Maybe his secrets could be found on his computer. That was where people lived these days, wasn’t it? Anything he was hiding would be there.

  She stood up, closed the filing cabinet, and moved to the desk. The keyboard was, of course, filthy. She looked around and saw a box of Kleenex on the windowsill and pulled out some tissues to wipe the keyboard down. To her surprise, the motion of her hand across the keys sparked the computer to life. The screen turned on, brightening the now darkened room.

  Huh, thought Grace, who had naturally assumed he would’ve shut it down before he left. There it was, the computer already booted up and the home screen lit, and there was Martijn’s user name, already filled in, in one box, and a flashing box that was just asking her to fill in his password.

  Password, thought Grace. Password.

  Grace was privy to some of Martijn’s passwords. His kids’ names, his uncle’s name, his birthdate. She typed in several variations of those. None of them worked, but if he was trying to conceal something from her, that was no surprise. He’d obviously use a password that she didn’t know. She secretly hoped that wasn’t the case—then it would be clear that he had nothing to hide. From her, at least.

  The computer rejected her attempts, repeatedly. She tried again and it shut her out, locking down so she had to wait for some minutes to try again.

  What on earth could his password be? How could she ever figure it out? She rifled around the desk for clues; there must be a Post-it note somewhere around here where he’d scribbled it down to remind himself. Martijn didn’t have such an amazing memory. But no, she didn’t find anything right in front of her, nothing in any of the usual places someone might keep a password. Anyway, since he used this computer all the time, he would remember it.

  She sat back and thought for a moment—how could she unlock Martijn’s mind. She thought about what he thought about. She’d already covered Frank and Jasper, Lila, all with numbers and icons. He often used 44 and ** as additions where characters and numbers were required, so it was logical he’d use those here too. She’d hopefully tried Grace and Karin, thinking maybe he occasionally thought of them when he was holed up in here. No. Those hadn’t worked either. She remembered Martijn’s long-deceased mother’s name, Hylke, and wrote that down, and his last name, Van Roosendaal, and then decided to try words about things he liked: “accounting,” “coffee,” “AFC Ajax,” “Westworld.”

  When the computer allowed her to try again she attempted all of those. No, no, no, no. And then it shut her out again for a full minute. Grace stood, tapping the eraser side of the pencil on her forehead to try to get her brain working. How ridiculous it was to attempt to figure out someone’s password when it could be literally anything.

  She moved in circles, thinking about what made Martijn tick, what words stuck close to his memory, what kinds of ideas were part of his personal lexicon. It came to her, a sardonic and strange thought, which she almost didn’t allow herself to think.

  The moment the computer allowed her to try once more, she leaned over and typed it in, thinking it was just a stupid fantasy. As soon as the c
ursor started blinking, she typed it:

  “Pieter,” adding a “44” for good measure.

  Bingo! She was in.

  Chapter 11

  Inland Beach

  Karin was trying to “locate” herself, as her father had taught her. She was standing in the middle of a large sand drift, with echoing ridges of white sand that, in places, looked like high waves, frozen at the moment when a surfer would ride them. She had half of the map in her pocket but not the half that showed this spot. Still, she knew the layout of the park well enough to know that to get to the campsite she had to head northwest. Wherever that was.

  The compass was what she needed. But where was it? It wasn’t in her jacket pocket, where she was sure she had put it last. She had searched through her backpack, knowing already that it wasn’t there, and of course did not find it. Could it have fallen out of her pocket when she had the tussle with Dirk on the trail? That was just messed up. She was without a map or a compass.

  Now that the sun was down she couldn’t use that as a guide either. The sky was really cloudy, so it was hard to see the stars too. She sat herself down on a cushion of green moss on one of the dunes and tilted her head back. Was that it? No, that must be a plane. She tried to find a spot without clouds where she could look. There—that must be it. Or was that Saturn?

  Well, she’d call that one the North Star. Maybe it wasn’t, but it was her best guess, ’cause it was all she could actually see. So if that was north, then that must be northwest, down this dune, over that sand drift, near where that huge downed tree was. She could get there. But she also knew it was going to be farther than it seemed.

  Her father had told her that these sand drifts in the Veluwe were “rare outcroppings” for an inland landscape. High dunes nowhere near the sea. He’d said they were ancient to this forest, dating to the Ice Age. Really super-early farmers may have caused these sand drifts by destroying the land, by tearing up the soil. “Wow, people have always ruined, like, everything,” Karin had said at the time. Her father had laughed in that proud way he had. “Well, not everything,” he said.

  It was really fine sand, and as she tried to walk across it, she kind of felt like her feet were being swallowed up. It was step, sink, and lift. Step, sink, and lift. But she could handle it. She had strong hockey legs. It would just take time.

  She knew the names of some of the things around her, and to comfort herself, she tried to remember them. She liked the word for the soft dewy green moss that covered the rocks in the sand drifts: “maidenhair.” That one sort of made her blush. And she remembered the name of all the lacy-looking stuff that grew on bark and stones: “lichen.” The forest she needed to hike through to get to the campsite was called De Plijmen. She could see the dense, dark tangle of trees from here, as a cluster of shadows. Due west in the Otterlose Forest was where the Scout leaders would be with their tents.

  As she walked, she couldn’t help but notice dark rain clouds moving in from the direction she was headed. The more she watched, the darker they seemed to become, and they were sort of building up on each other, like, well, a building. Oh no. It was just one thing after another, wasn’t it?

  Where was she going to hide from a storm in the middle of the sand drift? If she had time, she might be able to run around and find some dry wood and make a tiny shelter. But that seemed out of her league, and she’d have to do it fast. Her best bet was to run as quickly as she could into the surrounding forest, at least get some cover from trees. Walking was already hard—but running?

  Fighting back the urge to start crying—she didn’t have time now, with those clouds moving in—she took off her backpack again and tried to find anything she could use as a tent. The adults had taken the real tents to the campsite so the kids wouldn’t have to carry them on their hike, but now Karin thought about what a stupid plan that was. What if something like this happened?

  She dug around in her bag until she felt the emergency yellow rain poncho she had put in the bottom. It was thin but water resistant and long enough that it would work as a tarp if she could find some way to prop it open over her. Now the real question was, should she make a run for it? Or should she stay put?

  Karin wondered what her father would do. They’d waited out many a rainstorm in the park together, but usually in the car, which was often not so far from their tent. And what had the Scouts taught her about what to do during foul weather? Hm. The main thing she could remember was to try to stay close to the other Scouts, use a tarp, and huddle in a circle to keep warm. That advice wasn’t much use now. Karin decided to make a run for it. The edge of the forest didn’t seem that far away; she might even make it before the downpour.

  She put her backpack on again, stood up, threw her oversized rain poncho over her head, over her jacket and backpack, so the hood rested on her forehead but the rest of it was like a cape, flying out behind her. She held on to the bottom of it with both hands. Then she backed up a few steps, took a running leap, and flew off the side of the sand drift.

  She felt the first drops of rain fall on her head, heavy like pennies. Oh no. She looked up to see that the sky was almost completely black. Karin ran. She ran as fast and as far as she could, feeling her feet slip under her with each step, the distance between herself and that shadowy line of trees becoming ever so slightly shorter. She ran and ran as the rain began to pelt her from above, at first feeling every drop that hit her, and then the wind whipped up to turn the rain into an onslaught.

  When she reached the edge of the forest and found a tree wide and dense enough to harbor her, she sank down along its trunk and pulled the poncho close around her. Exhausted, terrified, alone in the woods, and not even yet thirteen years old, she thought; Karin began to cry, the tears rolling down her soaked face and mingling with the raindrops to make her face a wet mess.

  As she was sniffling and wiping her nose with the soaked sleeve of her jacket, she was startled by the sound of footsteps somewhere behind her. She turned, hardly able to make out anything but the outlines of a form, looming above her, in the shadows of the forest.

  “Lotte?” she said, hopefully.

  “What are you doing here?”

  It was a deep, raspy, scary voice coming from a clump of trees behind her. Definitely not Lotte. All she could see was the shape of a person, a big outline in black. Male or female, she couldn’t tell. He or she was definitely bigger than Karin. And it wasn’t someone she knew.

  She managed to reach into the small front pocket of her knapsack and grab her key chain, which had a mini flashlight dangling on it. She pressed the button and flashed it up into the face of whoever it was.

  “Sorry, I am not trying to freak you out,” she announced as she did it. “I can’t see you.”

  She didn’t mean to startle whoever it was standing there in the clump of trees, but they immediately jumped back like she’d hit them with a dart. Then she waited. Oh yikes. What if it was someone horrible? She waited again until she heard the sound of feet clomping on wet leaves. It didn’t sound like just two feet. There were more.

  The beam of her key-chain flashlight was too small. She waved it in front of her face, hoping to catch sight of something, but all she could see were shadows. And still the footsteps came closer. Then, somehow, she shined it in the right place and found a face. Except it wasn’t really a face. It looked more like a horrible mask: it was yellowish white with this big purple mouth that drooped at both sides. She moved the tiny flashlight beam to see better: big eyes too wide surrounded by really dark circles and all these red welts on the face. It was a ghoul out of a storybook.

  Karin screamed, and the key chain dropped out of her hands because they were trembling so much. She heard the ghoul yelp at exactly the same time, again like they’d been bit. They leapt away from her once more. She screamed again, until all she could hear was her own scream.

  Chapter 12

  Password

  Grace sat back down at the desk in front of Martijn’s computer and mar
veled. The password alone was bizarre. Why was Martijn so focused on her deceased husband, who could no longer present any kind of threat to him at all? It didn’t make sense. If there was something to be concerned about, then why hadn’t he talked to her about it—really discussed it with her? They were in a marriage. It couldn’t just be insecurity, could it? That seemed just too odd.

  Now that “Pieter” had granted her access, Grace could see everything of Martijn’s in front of her: all his documents were open, all his browser tabs, all his spreadsheets, and even his contacts. But what did she want to know now? What was she actually looking for?

  Since “Pieter” had gotten her this far, she decided to plug his name into the hard drive search bar. Suddenly, a whole series of files popped up on the screen, one after another, like a fan. The first group of them were Excel spreadsheets, with Pieter’s name at the top. The titles of these documents read: “Pieter Hoogendijk Photo Series 345,” “Pieter Hoogendijk Photo Series 446,” and one had a title that included a parenthetical that Grace found particularly mysterious: “Pieter Hoogendijk Photo Series 525 (code name: Oranje).” Oranje. Orange—the color of the Dutch state, the House of Orange.

  What was that supposed to mean?

  Grace clicked on that file and opened the spreadsheet. She could tell instantly that it was a list of images. Grace knew Pieter well enough to understand his method of keeping track of his pictures. It was a little old-fashioned—she knew that these days photographers had more sophisticated means of searching their files—but this was his. He’d write the image number, “IMG 4012,” for example, next to the file name, the camera (Pentax or Canon or Canon Wide), the location (such as Johannesburg), the date, and then a little description of the subject: “bus ride.” Because she had been working on a book that combined her observations of post-apartheid South Africa with Pieter’s photographs, she knew this system intimately, and understood that “bus ride” meant the photos he shot of the early 1990s bus desegregation process, a series of photos he’d actually shot for Time magazine.