Marlene's Revenge (Gretel #2)

by Christopher Coleman

  “But again, sir, I don’t want to waste your time. I would, though, like to speak with the person who was in charge of the case. Is in charge, I mean.”

  Petr knew about Dodd’s involvement with the case. He’d read the public file and knew the officer was one of the lead detectives on the case and was on the scene at the cabin the day after it all came to a head. But he wasn’t in charge of the case. In fact, judging by his mannerisms and attitude, Petr suspected Dodd had never been in charge of anything.

  Petr also knew one other thing: Dodd was covering up something.

  “Well, I’m not the overseer of your father’s case, but I was—”

  “I know about your involvement, Officer Dodd,” Petr interrupted. “I’m very familiar with the case and am thankful for your contributions. But I was looking for a person with access to all the files.”

  Dodd was now visibly irritated by Petr’s brashness and was probably embarrassed that he was getting badly beaten in their passive battle of words. Petr knew for the sake of progress he needed to walk things back, just a few steps to where they were a few minutes ago.

  “I’m sorry, Officer Dodd, I don’t mean to be rude, I’m just…I’m not dealing with any of this very well. I know there’s nothing to the rumors. Of course I know that. But for my own peace of mind, to help me sleep and eat and just have a regular day, I need to know that she’s dead. I don’t need to see her body or anything. I just need to know. Who can tell me that? Please, I need to know.”

  Petr’s words were sincere, if not the panicky way in which he said them. He wanted to speak with the lead investigator—the overseer, as Dodd put it—and to do so he would need to stir up some emotion. Petr knew he couldn’t trust Dodd; a few minutes with the overseer and Petr hoped he would have a take on him as well.

  “Wait here, Petr.”

  Dodd left for what must have been no more than three minutes, and when he returned he was followed into his office by an overweight man of about fifty, his slow pace and weary expression an indication of how much he wanted to be bothered with the inquiries of Petr Stenson.

  The overseer, Petr presumed.

  “Sir, this is Petr Stenson.” Dodd’s introduction went only one way.

  “Hello, Petr.” The overseer’s voice was gravelly and deep, oozing authority.

  Petr was immediately intimidated, but did his best to stay poised. “Hello.”

  “First, I’d like to express my deepest condolences.”

  “Thanks. And you are?”

  “I’m sorry, I thought Officer Dodd would have told you.” The large man glanced over at Dodd, admonishing his inferior’s lack of etiquette with a brief stare. “I’m Officer Conway. I’m the overseer of this case. Do you know what that means?”

  “You’re in charge?”

  Conway smiled softly, and Petr saw a kindness in the man’s face. “Well, not of everyone.” His smile straightened. “But when it comes to the case of the woman who murdered your father, yes, I’m in charge. Did you have some information regarding this case? As I’m sure you know, it’s closed for now.”

  “I understand, but I was hoping we could talk privately.” Petr avoided Dodd’s face.

  Conway looked over at Dodd. “Can you spare your office for a few minutes? You’re working on the case of those missing boys, right? Maybe you can see if there is anything new on that.”

  Petr consciously registered the missing boys.

  “Sure, of course,” Dodd agreed. “It was nice meeting you, Petr. I’m sure we’ll cross paths again.”

  Petr took the last sentence as a veiled threat, but out of context, they were innocent words of parting. Anyone watching wouldn’t have blinked at them. And Officer Conway didn’t.

  “What’s on your mind, son?”

  Petr knew the man in front of him wasn’t going to give him much time, so if he wanted to get his point out, he was going to have to do it immediately. This was a man he thought he could trust, and he took the plunge. “She’s alive, isn’t she?”

  “What are you talking about, Petr?”

  The lump in Petr’s throat almost prevented him from repeating his question, but he kept going. “The witch. She’s alive, right?”

  “No. What? Why would you think that?”

  “Did you ever see the body? Did you see her dead?”

  Conway shook his head dismissively. “The reports stated that she was…”

  “I know about the reports!” Petr shouted.

  Officer Conway let the yell drift in the office without comment. There was no need to tell Petr to calm himself.

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “I’m a very busy person, Petr. If you have some information about this case that you would like to share with me, I’ll be happy to hear it. If not, I’ll have to excuse myself.”

  “I don’t have any information.”

  Conway raised his eyebrows and tilted his head as if to say, Well, I guess that’s that.

  “I have a theory.”

  “I’m sorry son, but—”

  “Isn’t that how it works? As detectives? When you don’t know what happened, don’t you weigh the evidence and formulate a theory?”

  Conway frowned and lowered his head forward. “Yes, we do. When we don’t know what happened. Unlike the case of your father where we know exactly what happened.”

  “Please, Officer Conway, just answer my one question honestly. For now, that’s all I ask.”

  Conway grinned slightly, presumably at the for now part of Petr’s request. “Okay, son. What question is that?”

  “Based on everything you know about the case, is it possible she’s still alive?”

  Overseer Conway hesitated and stared directly at Petr, and Petr had his answer before the words were spoken. “I don’t believe that to be true, Petr, but I suppose it’s possible. Now, as I said, I’ve got a lot of work. You have yourself a nice rest of your day.”

  Conway sat on the edge of Dodd’s desk with his arms folded, the last sentence an indicator that it wasn’t Conway who would be leaving.

  Petr stood and walked out of the office muttering his thanks, and he kept his eyes down as he exited the station and made his way to the truck. As he reached for the handle of Ben Richter’s truck, he saw Officer Dodd in the side mirror. The officer stood pole straight, arms at his sides, staring at Petr. And from what Petr could tell, he was smiling.

  Petr barely paused, and then in one motion opened the door and hopped in the driver’s seat. He started the engine and headed back to the Back Country. As he drove, he thought how he wished he had stayed back at the fishing hole and spent the day with Sofia Karlsson.

  Chapter 10

  Gretel spent the next few days packing and planning her travel with Hansel. She hadn’t brought much from home to begin with and had acquired virtually nothing during her time in the Old Country, so the packing part had been simple. The planning part was a little more involved, but not much. Their mother had already arranged passage for two with a private cabin on a transoceanic vessel known as the Schwebenberg, scheduled to depart on the last day of the month, which, though it was only days away, wasn’t soon enough for Gretel. Of course, she wanted to be with her mother—and still spent a portion of her remaining days trying to convince her to come home with them—but with the seeds of danger for the Klahrs now planted, Gretel’s anxiety was in full bloom.

  And when the last day of the month arrived, she and Hansel were first in line at the dock before sunrise, suitcases in hand. They were going home. Finally.

  Gretel’s senses were mixed with love and longing. And danger. Her body raced with it.

  Chapter 11

  “Georg, are you almost out of there?” Amanda Klahr stood in their bedroom staring out across the lake to the Morgan property. As she did most nights, she thought of Gretel.

  “Just another minute,” Georg called from behind the bathroom door.

  Amanda dimmed the lights to full darkness and continued staring out the window
. The night was a black blanket, and she could only occasionally see a ripple of light off the lake. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again she saw a beacon coming from inside the Morgan home. It was just an instant, a flash, and then it went dark.

  Amanda moved closer to the window until her face nearly pressed against it. Her eyes were wide, disbelieving. Her urge was to call for her husband, but she didn’t want to ruin the chance of seeing the light again.

  And then it flashed on again, but this time it held steady. And it was moving now, clearly being walked about by someone inside.

  “Georg.” The words caught in her larynx and stuck there. She cleared her throat. “Georg! Come here!”

  There was a scurry from the bathroom and Georg burst out, knowing undoubtedly the tenor of terror in his wife’s voice. “What’s wrong, Manda?”

  “There.” Amanda pointed across to Gretel’s house. “It was inside the house, Georg. A light. It’s out now, but it was there. I saw it twice.”

  “A light?”

  “Yes, a light! A flashlight or…a lantern maybe. Wait for it. It will be back.”

  “Maybe I should go check on it.”

  “No!”

  “Okay, okay. But why not? What’s spooking you, dear?”

  Amanda glanced over at her husband as if she’d been suspected of hiding something, and then turned back to the window. “Nothing’s spooking me. Just don’t go over there.”

  Georg stared at his wife for a few beats and then turned back to find the light. But it was out. At least for now.

  Amanda would see it again later that night.

  The woman knew the risk the flashlight posed to her concealment, but she had been there almost two weeks and had yet to find any clue as to the whereabouts of the Morgan family. She was desperate for information. She was desperate to begin the blending process again. It was time to move forward.

  Since her arrival, the woman had made watching the Klahr house her main activity, and she was pleasantly surprised at how easy it was to track the movements of their rote lives, which consisted mostly of gardening and field work. The man—Georg—spent his days like some deranged railroad worker, splitting the dry, empty ground with his pickaxe for what appeared to be no purpose; the woman seemed to do nothing at all, except for running the occasional errand at the market.

  Petr, however, was a bit more mysterious.

  From what she could tell, he wasn’t home often. This wasn’t necessarily a surprise—he was a teenage boy, after all—but her enhanced senses told her there was something beyond just schooling and social calls taking up his time. They told her it was something to do with her?

  She couldn’t trust this last feeling completely. Just as her physical senses were enhanced, she suspected so too was her sense of importance. Some might have called it paranoia or delusions of grandeur, but at least she was cognizant enough to recognize it. At least she was still aware of her addiction. And that was worth something. Perhaps there was no one looking for her. Perhaps nobody cared at all where her body had gone.

  But that didn’t feel quite right either. And her sense was that there were others beyond Petr looking for her.

  The woman found the knob and instantly flicked the flashlight off before opening the door. There was enough ambient light outside for her to navigate the porch stairs and the yard, as well as the steps down to the lake; there was no reason to risk anything more than necessary. She tapped her toe to the first step of the porch and then began her descent of the stairs, breathing deeply the night air. It was still exhilarating, all these months later. She’d never dismiss the glory of oxygen again, not since she’d come so close to choking on her own skull.

  The night was dark and quiet, but the woman sensed it was still too early. The Klahrs were old, but from what she had observed, they were the kind of folks who stayed up late and woke up at dawn. That was fine. She would use the hours to fine tune her strategy for this night.

  The woman felt her way toward the back of the house and flicked on the flashlight for just an instant to get her bearings. She was at the top of the staircase of timbered railroad ties that led to the lake. She focused the beam of light to her left and shined it on the tarp covering what she had assumed over the past several days was some type of small boat. She had meant to uncover it days ago, but she’d been too afraid of exposing herself during the day, and at night she simply hadn’t the energy. But tonight, she was rested and ready to explore it.

  The witch had no doubt the boat underneath was the same one young Gretel and her mother had escaped in on that infamous night a year ago.

  The woman mapped out her steps to the tarp and turned off the light, though at this hour she was becoming less and less worried about anyone spotting her. Only the Klahrs could have seen the light from this point on the property, and only then if they were scouting the house closely, which she couldn’t imagine for what purpose they would be doing that.

  She walked the estimated paces and could now see the outline of the tarp. It was definitely the canoe. She pulled off the tarp and flung it to the leaf-littered ground. Something scurried on the floorboards, running from side to side, trapped by the hull.

  The woman closed her eyes and listened. She found herself enjoying the peace and tranquility of the Back Country, listening not just to the panicky imprisoned rodent but to the scurry of the mammals in the trees and the buzz of insects in the distance. For a moment, she understood the magnetism of normalcy, of life appreciated for these moments of natural intoxication. But these moments didn’t last. Regardless of the struggle to grip them in her mind, to feel them with all the cells in her body, they always faded. Often within seconds.

  Only her potion made it last.

  And with the addition of the sweet brown honey from her distant kin—the glorious blood and lymph and inner fluids of Anika and Gretel Morgan—she could make the euphoria last forever.

  The ancient woman was now trancelike as she stood over the canoe, undistracted by the tiny claw taps of the tiring animal below. She breathed deeply again, extending her neck forward as if smelling the air. She held in the breath and then opened her eyes, and a smile formed as she punched her arm downward, her hand clawed with nails extended.

  The woman felt no resistance; she only knew she’d struck her target by the silence that followed. She lifted the mouse to her face and was disappointed at the size of the creature; with all that noise, she’d hoped for more. But it would have to do. She was hungry, and the Morgans hadn’t left much behind.

  Like a reptile, she swallowed the rodent whole. It wasn’t her ideal method of eating, but she didn’t see the point in wasting energy on skinning and gutting anything so tiny. This was purely for sustenance. Her delicacies would come later. Perhaps even later tonight.

  The woman grabbed the bow of the boat and pulled it toward the steps leading to the water’s edge. The slope leading down wasn’t too severe, and she managed the canoe to the shoreline with little fuss.

  And then she waited. Another few hours maybe, and then she’d be on her way to discovering the whereabouts of Anika and Gretel and Hansel Morgan.

  Chapter 12

  Dodd read over his notes one more time and then tucked the book deep into the glove box of the cruiser. It was his interview with the boy who had heard the screams of his friends coming from the backyard of the cabin. The cabin where the infamous woman of the Northlands once tried to make a meal of a young mother.

  During the interview, which Dodd had tried to make casual and conversational, the boy’s mother had sat in with her son—Franklin—while the father roamed from room to room, uninterested in the plot of the investigation, scoffing at the suggestion of foul play.

  “The boys were no good,” he had offered. “They ran away. It’s as simple as that. If you knew the boys’ parents, you wouldn’t be considering any other possibilities.”

  “I’ve spoken with them, Mr. Blixt,” Dodd had replied, just to keep the record straight.
/>   “Well then, you know.”

  “And the screams, sir? What about the screams your son heard?”

  “What do you mean ‘screams?’ Those boys are pranksters. They were only scaring Frankie. And they done it too. All of ya. Look at all of ya.”

  Had Dodd not known better, he may have considered Mr. Blixt a suspect, so eager to turn thoughts away from the idea that a crime had been committed.

  But Dodd did know better.

  He had questioned Mr. Blixt further, fishing for more details about the missing boys, gathering what theories he could to form a reasonable explanation for the disappearance of seemingly happy, if somewhat neglected, children. But Dodd had no doubt about the truth. He had been waiting for months for a call just like the one that had come across his radio two weeks back. And when it finally came, he had known instantly the woman was free from her hatch and had murdered the children coldly.

  Obviously though, his report would have to say something much different.

  And so, it had. After a week of searches from the local constabulary and a handful of volunteers, and then another week of searches and interviews from the System, Dodd had closed the case from his end and turned it over to the Department of the Missing and Absent. Dodd’s official conclusion: runaways.

  M&A would disseminate pictures of the boys, but the System searches would not continue. If the boys’ bodies were ever found, it wouldn’t be by his organization. He supposed the boys’ parents could finance whatever search parties they could afford—maybe hire some hounds from a local hunter to go over the area around the cabin one more time—but judging by his official interviews with those folks, Dodd doubted there would be much to finance their own investigation. Dodd didn’t care what they did now; he was clean of the case and could now focus his efforts on the only thing he cared about—finding the witch.

  Dodd stepped out of the cruiser and walked to the area where Franklin had said he and his friends were when he ran off. It wasn’t far from the pit where the woman had hidden for all those months. He’d been here several times during the investigation, of course, but he wanted one last look to make sure he hadn’t bypassed anything noteworthy.