by Noah Fitz
Wulf grabbed it and rammed the tapered end between the boards. With a strained expression, he pushed down with all his weight.
“I think you should try it from the other side.” The corner of Tine’s mouth twitched nervously.
Wulf’s distorted face turned dark. “What?” he said through clenched teeth.
“There’s a trapdoor. I see the handle,” she said. She freed the iron ring from the dust and wood shavings that lay all over the dirty floor.
The inspector dropped the crowbar and ran his sleeve over his forehead. “Why didn’t you mention that before?” he said and bent over. “I’ll lift up the lid and you push the crowbar into the crack.”
Tine did as she was told. Marc grabbed the heavy ring and pulled. The metal hatch was stuck. The investigator’s muscles strained visibly and the tendons in his neck stuck out.
“Stop, Pride,” he said and let go. “Beluga, right? Come here.” Wulf stretched his back and took a deep breath.
The blond policeman knew what was expected of him as Tine handed him the crowbar.
“Make an effort,” said Marc and reached for the ring again.
A soft whirring sounded. The trapdoor opened, as if by magic. Marc straightened up and looked around in disbelief.
“All you had to do was ask.” An old man in a boiler suit stood before a nearby workbench, looking unsteady. In his hands was a heavy remote control that dangled from the concrete ceiling on a thick cable. “It opens electronically.”
“Mr. Lind?” Marc wiped the sweat from his brow.
The old man swayed and held on with both hands to the control.
***
The warm, earthy smell of a damp cellar rose into Marc’s nose.
“I was told that Mr. Kräuser…” The retired janitor scratched the stubble on his wrinkled neck. His pronunciation was moist and slurred. “… that Mr. Kräuser might have done something wrong.”
“What’s down there?” Marc asked, risking a quick glance into the black gorge. The lid remained in the vertical position.
The janitor shrugged. “Probably served as a bunker in the past. You know. In the time when the Russians and Americans had divided our country in two and brainwashed us.” Lind chattered away. Wulf waited impatiently for the old man to finally answer his question, but he didn’t let himself get upset. “That worked great. If the Russians or Americans had allowed it, most of them would’ve been prepared to fight against their brothers and sisters, but the occupying forces needed our machines and the heads of our engineers. Fortunately.” He laughed and it was a tired sound. “And when there was nothing more to get from us, they left again. At least the Russians did.”
“Help!”
The cry came from below. Muffled and timid, but there was no doubt.
“Is there a light down there?” Marc asked.
The old janitor pressed one of the buttons. Somewhere in the basement a lamp flickered up briefly and went out again. “You can take a flashlight. But be careful. There’s stuff down there you’d better not touch. I’ve been trying to get rid of all these chemicals for years, but nobody cares.”
Marc reached for his cell phone and switched on the light.
“With that twinkle you’ll get lost down there. Here.” The drunk man pulled open a drawer and gave Tine a big flashlight, which she passed on to Marc.
“You got my back, Pride?”
“I guess you won’t take no for an answer.”
He grinned sarcastically. “I thought we were partners.”
He turned around and felt for the top rung of the iron ladder with his left foot. The metal had been eaten away by black rust spots.
“Looks pretty dilapidated,” Tine said and directed the beam of a second flashlight into the dark. “You could break all your bones if you fall.”
“You’ve got a real knack for instilling courage, Pride. Wait here till I get to the bottom.”
Suddenly a woman screamed, “Where’s my son?!” Despite the demand not to enter the workshop, she pushed her way roughly between the officials. Moments later, other onlookers crowded the entry, causing a commotion.
Marc stood up to his hips in the opening.
“Pride! Take care of them!” He pointed to the angry crowd that had gathered outside the door to protest. The woman shrieked and flailed, trying to push her way further inside. Like a lynch mob, the men and women behind her pushed their way through the door, too, offering bitter resistance to the overtaxed officers.
The old janitor was jostled in the turmoil; he slipped and lost his balance. Marc’s gaze flew to Tine. It was apparent she didn’t understand the sudden turmoil either.
“Help!” the voice cried again from below.
Marc continued his descent. The groaning rungs strained under his weight but held. Slowly and cautiously, he moved on. He was so concentrated on the voice below and the creaking of the rusty struts Marc barely heard Lind’s warning cry. Above his head it suddenly became darker. Something hissed. Marc noticed a cold breeze.
He heard a crack, closely followed by an electric crackling and sparking. The air suddenly stank of scorched cables.
Marc’s fingers bent into claws and he suddenly realized that the current was flowing through him. All his muscles cramped up. Looking for help, he tried to peer up, but he couldn’t control his neck muscles. He caught a glimpse of Tine. Then the trapdoor cracked down with full force on the crown of Marc’s head. His feet slipped off the rungs.
The fall lasted only the blink of an eye. He landed on his back hard enough his teeth clacked together. Amazingly, he remained alive, even though for a moment he wished for nothing more than a quick death.
“Pride.”
Death can be so tempting. Marc’s skin prickled as if he were lying in a meadow of tall grass. He watched as everything around him was engulfed in blackness. Reality and what some people call a near-death experience blended together into a feeling of weightlessness.
His eyelids closed. He lay in the meadow again. The rays of the sun, reflecting in dewdrops, dazzled him.
After another moment he felt a stabbing pain in his legs and between his shoulder blades. The fear of dying, which had been nothing more than a lingering flicker below his heart, returned explosively all at once.
Tine’s voice crept into his reeling mind. “There’s a life beyond your job. You owe it to your son. Do you understand?”
Pride? Where are you? Pride?
Papa? When are we going to the swimming pool? You promised me.
Luck? Luck!
Pride? Pride, can you hear me, I’m down here!
Marc screamed, but the sound just stayed in his head.
The pain in his chest subsided.
Papa? Why are you lying on the floor? Get up. Do you hear me? Get up!
Luck, what’re you doing down here?
Marc pushed himself up with his arms. The pain in his back was more than real.
“Who is it?” He shook his head and the voices and images behind his forehead gave way to complete blackness.
One movement. A scraping. A whisper.
Only then did Marc realize he was not hallucinating. He forced himself to stand.
The darkness was impenetrable, yet he felt the presence of someone crawling toward him.
“Hello?” he shouted. It was no illusion, he knew it.
Marc listened. He heard murmuring, as if he held a shell to his ear.
A breath of wind.
Silence.
Chapter 35
Tine sat outside and longed for a cigarette, although she did not smoke. She needed to occupy her trembling hands.
A fire department task force was trying to reopen the bunker. The police had already dispersed the mob. Two of the loudest men had been arrested and taken away.
Tine heard the rumbling of heavy machines. The hustle and bustle looked more like a chaotic mess than a well-organized and thought-out procedure.
&n
bsp; Marc was a perfectionist. His obsession with keeping everything under control had not saved him from being crushed by a heavy trapdoor.
A dark-haired paramedic tore Tine out of her thoughts. “Mrs. Holm is stable so far. I think you can start the questioning.”
Tine followed the paramedic to one of the emergency vehicles. Mrs. Holm sat wrapped in a blanket in the van and held a steaming teacup in her hands.
“Good afternoon. My name is Tine Stolz,” she said and took a seat opposite the woman.
“Where’s my son? Peer’s down there! He’s been kidnapped!” She still seemed slightly hysterical.
“Why didn’t you report the disappearance of your child to the police?” Tine said. “They were at your house. You said he was with friends. You knew we were looking for your son.”
Her red-rimmed eyes twitched. “At the time, I didn’t know what kind of trouble he was in.” She held the mug tightly without even sipping the tea.
“Why did you lie to us?”
“My son has done nothing wrong! Peer always sought recognition, praise, and attention, that’s true, but he’s a good boy.” Her chin trembled. The hot tea spilled over and ran down her fingers, but the woman did not seem to notice.
“I would be very grateful if you could tell me something about your children—and where your son has been lately. We have to check every step he took. You can help me find him. You already lost your daughter three years ago. Now we’ll try to save your son. Together.”
“It was Immanuel, wasn’t it?” Her face became hard, and her eyes, inflamed by lack of sleep, radiated bottomless hatred. “He went into hiding shortly after Pia’s death. Supposedly he was on an oil rig. But he’s lying. I spoke to people here in the neighborhood.”
Tine waited for her to continue.
“I didn’t recognize him immediately. He’s changed. He used to have long hair and a full beard. I didn’t know him any better then, either. After all, I was happily married. In any case, Lydia told me that she had a thing with him. He suggested she go away with him because he would make good money with the oil company. He worked in an IT department. But then he gambled and lost all his money, so he came back.”
Once again there was a break. This time Mrs. Holm lifted the cup to her lips and blew off the steam.
“You know what else Lydia told me?” she said over the edge of the cup.
Tine shook her head.
“This guy was interrogating her. He wanted to know everything about my daughter. And one more thing.” Her hands were shaking. Only then did Tine notice her nails, bitten to the quick and surrounded by torn flesh at the edges. Mrs. Holm was wearing a jacket that was much too big. She put down the cup, loosened the blanket, fiddled with the zipper, and began to hectically pull on it. “It’s my son’s,” she said apologetically. “I just needed a coat and grabbed it in a hurry.” Finally she pulled a photo out of an inside pocket and handed it to Tine.
“Is this your daughter?”
“No. Lydia found it in Immanuel’s wallet. At first, she didn’t attach much importance to the picture. I guess he told her it was his niece. But the first time we talked about my Pia…” She sobbed, dabbed her tears, and began to knead the ripped handkerchief. “Well, she suspected he liked little girls, like that one.”
“What was your daughter like?”
“Peer and Pia were twins, but their personalities were very different. It was important for my son to be noticed by others. He was easily drawn to things that boys do. Pia was introverted. She sometimes spent hours in her room, absorbed in a book. Shortly before her death, she retreated even further in her world, shut herself off from all of us. She kept a diary. I saw her write something into it a few times. But that’s what girls do.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where Pia hid her diary? I used to do that back then, too.”
“What?” Mrs. Holm’s watery eyes stared at Tine without understanding. So Tine formulated the question differently.
“When I was Pia’s age, I wrote everything down in a diary and hid it so that no one would find it. Some things were embarrassing. I wrote down secrets that I couldn’t even share with my best friend. Did Pia hide hers, too?”
After a moment, the woman nodded tentatively.
“And where did she hide the diary?”
Hesitation again. “I don’t know. I never snooped around my kids’ things. I trusted them.”
“Did Pia ever mention Immanuel Kräuser?”
“No. I knew him, more or less, only by sight. He was not here very often. He had different jobs and was probably on a ‘trip to self-discovery.’ At least that’s what Lydia said.”
“And this Lydia, are you close friends with her?”
“No. She just happened to notice Immanuel and I had coffee together once. His advances were not intrusive, and I didn’t think anything of it. My husband and I have been separated for two years, and Immanuel seemed likeable to me.” The sedative that had been administered to Mrs. Holm was gradually taking full effect. The woman no longer stuttered and now talked like a waterfall. “I went shopping and he apparently ran into me by chance. Now I know he was waiting for me. He invited me for a cappuccino, and I didn’t refuse. After Pia’s death, I found that meeting with him one of the most beautiful moments in my life, even if that sounds paradoxical. For the first time I felt I could breathe again. And the coffee tasted like it used to. I received more attention from Immanuel than I’d had in years, but now… he’s a psychopath, isn’t he?”
Tine just nodded.
“Lydia noticed a change in her lover. Actually, they were not a real couple, they only slept together, although she hoped for more. She followed him and watched us in the café through the glass. Two days later she found out where I live, which wasn’t difficult. She rang my doorbell. I explained everything to her and assured her that nothing was going on between Immanuel and me. The next day I invited her for a cup of coffee and a piece of cake. Lydia likes her coffee with a shot, but I had no rum at home. ‘Vodka will do,’ she said. I still had half a bottle of it, although I don’t drink anymore. After three cups, her tongue loosened, and Lydia began to talk out of the sewing box. The next day she stood outside my door again and brought me this photo.”
Tine had the feeling that all this was leading nowhere. She said, “How do you know Peer is in the workshop?”
“I got a text message. At first, I thought it was a bad joke. The number was unknown to me. Usually I don’t open those kinds of messages at all. I show them to Peer first.”
“What did it say?”
“ ’Your son is with me. If you go to the police, I will kill him. Come to my garage tonight… alone.’ ”
“Out of the way!” yelled a voice outside, one that Tine knew well. She and Eleonora Holm turned around.
“My son!” cried the shaken mother. She hurled the cup and blanket aside and rushed toward two paramedics who pushed a stretcher to one of the ambulances. Tine followed her. Eleonora Holm was quick. She clasped her son’s hand and looked up at one of the paramedics. “My child! How is he?”
“I’ll shoot you in the knee if you keep stopping me,” said someone from farther back. “I’m all right! Let go of me or I’ll use my service weapon!” Marc, alive but battered, pushed one of the officers aside and made his way to Tine. His face was covered in blood, and his coat and trousers were dirty and torn. “Seal off everything here, damn it! And confiscate the fucking cell phones from these onlookers! Anyone who films me will have to expect criminal consequences!”
He staggered toward a young man and ripped the smartphone from his hands. “Now everybody erase the videos and put your phones away right now. Pride! Check the others.”
Tine quickly spotted six onlookers.
“This is an unlawful invasion of privacy!” said an elderly gentleman with a bushy mustache and an accurately parted toupee.
“You’ll be the first to get it,” Marc said and threw Tine the
young man’s cell phone.
Tine’s heart began to race. I’ve never been good at catching, she thought as she reached out to grab the phone out of the air. It nearly slipped through her fingers, and she only caught it with a lot of luck.
The old man with the bushy beard and hairpiece broke away from the crowd and ran toward his car, which blocked the sidewalk.
“Hey, you!” Out of the corner of her eye, Tine saw her colleague grab one of the officers by the upper arm. “Can’t you see that gentleman parked his dirty car on the sidewalk? In a no-stopping zone!”
The well-dressed older man hobbled a little faster toward his highly polished Mercedes.
“Get him and erase the damn video!”
Tine waved the nearby owner of a phone over and asked him to delete the video, which the man did without argument. “And delete it from the trash, too,” Tine added.
The man’s thin-lipped smile disappeared. The rest of the gapers followed her instructions without resistance.
“I want to call my lawyer!” cried the old man. His toupee had slipped to the side.
The officer assisting Tine remained calm. “We’ll take you down to the station first.”
“Okay, all right. I’ll delete the video… even from the trash,” the man finally agreed. With a bright red face, he handed the officer his cell phone and murmured sheepishly: “I don’t know how to do that. Do it for me?”
The policeman looked to Tine for help. She just nodded and looked around. Where was her colleague?
“What’re you standing around for, Pride?” Marc said. “You want to put down roots?” He stood in front of the ambulance that the boy was in.
Tine took her time. She didn’t want to look rushed in front of everyone.
“Give it to me,” said Marc. He tore the damp cloth from the paramedic’s hand and rubbed the blood from his face.
“Where are we going?” Tine buried her hands in the big pockets of her duffle coat.
“To Immanuel’s apartment. I’ll take care of this personally.”
“Do we have a warrant?”
