Where Oblivion Lives

by T. Frohock

  Karl made a great show of examining the note. When he looked up again, his lip twitched, this time with a smile, although there wasn’t a trace of humor in the mortal’s eyes. “My apologies, Herr Alvarez. You are who you say you are. Please, let us begin again.” Karl raised the decanter and poured the amber liquid into a glass. “Have a drink with me.”

  The apology was superficial at best, but Diago pretended to be mollified. He stepped forward and accepted the proffered glass. “Thank you.”

  Rudi’s relieved sigh was audible in the hush.

  Diago lifted his glass to Karl, but he didn’t drink. “Perhaps now we can discuss our business.”

  Karl poured a drink for himself. He didn’t offer his brother one. “Please forgive me, but today has been nothing but endless meetings and business. Perhaps we can relax this evening and attend to the terms and conditions of the Stradivarius in the morning. You must stay the night.”

  “I would hate to impose on you.”

  “Please, it’s the least I can do after our rough beginning.”

  Rudi hovered nearby. “It’s really no imposition, either. When Don Guillermo confirmed you were coming, Frau Weber prepared the guest room.”

  “Besides, there is the storm”—Karl gestured to the window, where the first drops of falling rain struck the patio—“and these mountain roads can be treacherous at night. We won’t take no for an answer.”

  Diago feigned hesitation for merely a moment. Staying on the premises kept him off the roads, where he might accidentally run into Heines or other members of Die Nephilim. Besides, between sleeping rough last night and disabling Heines’s glyph this morning, I’m exhausted. “If you insist.”

  “Excellent.” Karl placed his drink on the sideboard.

  Untouched. Not a sip.

  Rudi gestured to the door. “Let me show you to your room, Herr Alvarez.”

  They’re herding me. More, it’s not the first time they’ve done this. Now that he thought of it, everything between the brothers had the aura of a performance. Had they played a version of this scene before? With Harvey Lucas perhaps?

  Entirely possible. Harvey was a rogue. Once lured here, with nothing but wilderness between the manse and the next town, it would be tempting to stay the night.

  After all, what harm could come from a pair of mortals?

  Diago paused as if a thought suddenly occurred to him. “May I use your phone to call Don Guillermo? I promised I would contact him once I arrived. It will be a collect call without any charges to you.”

  The brothers grew still. It was Karl who apologized. “Unfortunately, our phone is not working. It was another of the matters I had to attend today. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to my solicitor’s office in Offenburg, and you may place your call there.”

  “I see.” Was that what they told Harvey? “Well then”—Diago bowed his head to Karl—“I am at your mercy for the evening.”

  And tomorrow suddenly seems very far away.

  16

  As Diago passed the hall tree on the way to retrieve his bag, he noticed Harvey’s scarf seemed to have disappeared. Had either Frau Weber or Karl removed it?

  It was possible, but with Rudi by his side, he couldn’t pause to look. The rain started to pick up, so Diago hurried to his car, grabbed his bag, and returned to the house, where Rudi waited by the front door.

  “Oh, you made it just in time.” The youth shut the door before turning toward the stairs.

  Diago hesitated by the hall tree, allowing Rudi to draw ahead of him. He shifted his coat aside and slipped the papers for his German alias into his bag. With Heines on the hunt for Jacob Schwarz, that pseudonym was dead to him now. He glanced at the floor in case the scarf had merely slipped again. It had definitely disappeared. Nor did he see any other evidence of Harvey’s presence. What happened to you, my old friend?

  Rudi paused by the banister. “Is something wrong?”

  There is a lot wrong here. “No, nothing at all,” Diago lied easily as he caught up to the youth and followed him to the second-floor landing.

  Rudi indicated the wall plate beside the stairs. “The switch,” he said as he pushed the button. Harsh yellow light washed over the threadbare carpet lining the floor.

  Just ahead, the stairs ascended upward toward the third floor. Darkness engulfed the upper risers, but the lack of dust testified to their use.

  Rudi went to the stairs and pulled a pair of pocket doors shut. He locked them and dropped the key into his pocket, treating Diago to a cat smile. “My apologies. We use that floor for storage nowadays, and the climb can be dangerous. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself should you get turned around in the dark.” He turned left and continued down the hall.

  Diago hesitated by the pocket doors. Nothing but a cold draft seeped through the sash.

  Another wing stretched to the right of the stairs, but the corridor had an abandoned feeling to it. The four doors—two on each side of the hall—were shut.

  Rudi, who apparently hadn’t noticed that Diago remained on the landing, continued down the left wing. “Karl’s room is there.” He pointed to the first door on the left. “I’m beside him. There is a lavatory at the end of the hall.” He nodded toward the dark bathroom.

  Diago caught up to the youth just before he turned to the door on the right, which he opened. “And here you are, directly across from me.”

  It was a spacious room; most likely at one time it had served as the master bedroom. A settee and chairs gathered around the cold hearth, which was stacked with firewood. A large double-door armoire dominated the opposite wall. The bed commanded the center of the room and could have easily accommodated all three of them. The mahogany frame was carved with angels, like the hall tree below. They swarmed around the posts, openmouthed and crying.

  The engravings disquieted Diago.

  “Interesting, isn’t it?” Rudi whispered, his voice right beside Diago’s ear. “They look frightened as they fall.”

  The wind chose that moment to scream through the eaves. Beneath the long howl, Diago heard the faintest murmur of voices, like the sound of a crowd all speaking at once, but from across a great distance (chasm).

  Again, he looked for evidence of dark sounds but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Because the voices are from my nightmares, they’re in my head. A shiver glided down the back of his neck.

  The rain pelted the room’s windows, hesitantly at first, and then picking up speed with the storm. The icy downpour brought the night prematurely into the room.

  Rudi’s nearness was disconcerting.

  Diago moved away from him and went to the bed. “The workmanship is marvelous.” He ran his thumb down an angel’s wing. The clawed talons were stretched just over another angel’s arm.

  “I thought you might appreciate it,” Rudi said.

  Diago caught another cat smile on the youth’s face before his host turned his back. “Please make yourself at home. Dinner will be served in an hour.” Then he closed the door.

  Loosening his tie, Diago removed it and tossed it to the settee. He walked around the room, giving it a closer inspection.

  Overhead, a series of large rust-colored blemishes, similar to the ones downstairs, streaked the ceiling just above the bed’s headboard. It appeared as if a water pipe had ruptured, leaving stains and damaged plaster as a testament to the leak.

  The armoire was locked and the key was gone, which seemed rather odd. He checked around the base but the key hadn’t fallen, nor was it in either of the bedside tables or on the mantel. Why place a guest in a room with no way to hang their clothing?

  It was a mystery that could wait until after dinner. For now, he needed to make the best use of his time while the brothers were downstairs.

  At least, he hoped they were still downstairs. Unbuttoning his shirt, he stripped to his undershirt, and then stepped into the corridor. The brothers’ bedroom doors remained shut and no light shined beneath the thresholds.

  Rudi must have returned
to the music room, because the languid notes of another waltz drifted up the stairs.

  The lavatory was only a few steps away so Diago slipped inside. Someone, probably Frau Weber, had left him a washcloth and towel. He turned the hot water valve and, after a moment of chugging, the pipes ejected a steady flow of deliciously hot water. Leaving the door open so he could watch the hall, he completed his toilet and considered his next move.

  He doubted he would be alone on this floor again, and a cursory search might reveal more information about the whereabouts of the violin, or Harvey. It was an opportunity he couldn’t afford to waste.

  Moving stealthily, he padded over to Rudi’s room. The brass knob turned easily and the hinges gave a soft creak as the door opened. The room seemed innocuous enough: a bed, an armoire, and chairs. Each thing had a place and was immaculately arranged.

  Diago thought back to his son’s room, which was a clutter-filled testimony to the things that interested Rafael: pictures, his fútbol, the stuffed horse on his bed. Even Diago’s and Miquel’s bedroom held books and trinkets.

  Yet not a single memento, photograph, or book testified to Rudi’s interests. Diago had seen hotel rooms with more personality. But people, like songs, are layered. Maybe Rudi keeps his interests beneath the surface.

  He checked the armoire. No sign of the violin or its case, and other than Rudi’s neatly folded clothes, no personal effects.

  A radio squatted on the night table beside a glass of water. Inside the drawer was an expensive woman’s compact. From the popular art deco design on the cover, Diago guessed it probably belonged to Karin Grier.

  Curious, Diago opened it. The cracked mirror fractured his face. Although it had been wiped completely clean, the light scent of facial powder still clung to the metal interior.

  So he was close to his mother and must still grieve her passing. That information might prove useful later. Diago returned the compact to the drawer, careful to place it in the same position as he had found it.

  The bed was old-fashioned and high. Diago knelt and lifted the bedspread. Not even a dust bunny marred the clean floor. As he rose, he noted the corner of a page protruding between the mattress and the box spring. Lifting the edge of the mattress, he found two well-worn copies of Die Filmwoche, a popular movie magazine. Both issues had pictures of the handsome German actor Conrad Veidt on the covers.

  Diago flipped through the magazines. Why is he hiding them?

  And then he saw the black hearts, which had been meticulously drawn beside each publicity shot of Veidt. In one place, Rudi had been bold enough to write “Rudi loves all things Conrad” in the margin. It was an ambiguous statement that could refer to Veidt’s films or to the actor himself.

  But it was the hearts that clued Diago to Rudi’s desires. The youth was in love—a very dangerous love that carried a prison sentence in Germany of six months to five years if he was caught.

  Rudi obviously knew the consequences of his behavior. Karl either lived in denial of Rudi’s sexuality, or he openly disdained it, otherwise Rudi wouldn’t go to such lengths to hide the magazines. But he’s chafing at those restraints. Writing his desires is a way of articulating them.

  Downstairs, Karl’s voice rose over the strains of the waltz Rudi played. The music ceased.

  What now? Diago returned the magazines to Rudi’s hiding place and retreated to the hallway. Easing the door shut, he winced when the hinges squeaked.

  Crossing the hall to his room, he watched the stairwell, ready to slip inside if anyone appeared.

  Karl grew louder, more strident. Although his words were muffled by the distance, his anger was not. When he finished his diatribe, Rudi launched into the prologue of Wagner’s Götterdämmerung. From the way he hit the keys, Diago suspected Rudi nursed a fury of his own.

  Apparently, the previous musical selection had been too passive for Karl’s taste. Diago waited in front of his door for a full minute. No one came upstairs.

  How much longer do I have before I’ve pushed my luck too far? Karl’s door tugged at his curiosity. If information was to be had, it would be in the dominant sibling’s possession.

  Diago didn’t give himself time to waver. He crossed the corridor and entered Karl’s room.

  Whereas Rudi hid his deepest desires, Karl showed no such inhibitions. The books stacked throughout the room encompassed subjects from the higher maths and physics to topics more in line with what Diago expected from Karl. A copy of Theozoology rested next to Hitler’s autobiography, Mein Kampf. Issues of Ostara, another of Lanz’s occult publications, were stacked next to Die Chiromantie, a magazine dedicated to the Association of Palmists in Germany.

  Intrigued as to what fascinated Karl about palmistry, Diago had only to glance at the cover to recognize the name, Ernst Issberner-Haldane, a noted member of Ordo Novi Templi. Open next to a pad of paper on the desk was a copy of Ariosophische Bibliothek, in which Haldane had an essay discussing one of Lanz’s theories.

  Karl had jotted notes on the pad in the obvious attempt to prove a point. An envelope protruded from beneath the blotter.

  Diago glanced at the door before he eased the envelope free. Inside was a typewritten letter bearing the Ordo Novi Templi letterhead. Karl’s application to join the organization as a full member had been rejected. Someone—presumably Karl—had scratched out the author’s signature with such vehemence that the pen had torn the paper. Fortunately, the name was also typewritten beneath the letterhead: Ernst Issberner-Haldane.

  Apparently, Karl wasn’t pleased with the development or Herr Haldane. He’ll be even less pleased if he catches me snooping in his room. Diago returned the letter to the blotter.

  A battered cigar box perched on one corner of the desk. Diago lifted the lid to find an odd assortment of colorful wires, alligator leads, and diodes.

  What are you doing, Karl? Diago scanned the room, but he saw nothing else related to the strange collection of electronic parts. Another mystery, although given Karl’s other interests, this one seemed almost benign.

  Downstairs, Rudi played as if he would never tire. But he will and when he does, he may wander back up here, which means I must move fast.

  A quick check for the violin and then I’m done. As he had in Rudi’s room, he looked beneath the bed, but the space was free of clutter.

  That left the armoire. Diago opened the doors. A gas mask swung from the hook. Light from the hallway flickered in the celluloid eyes, and for just a moment, Diago imagined he saw battlefield flames reflected in those lenses. The distant sound of drums (bombs) echoed in the back of his mind.

  Behind the mask was the armoire’s mirror, a plate of glass that reflected not the room, or Diago’s startled face, but a cloud of swirling colors mottled with cancerous shades of gray and black. Diago recognized these hues. The dark sounds of the dead.

  He’d seen them in France. A flashback returned him to the Great War: helpless under the Germans’ fire, he’d squatted in that trench, clenching a piece of wood between his teeth as the cacophony of bombs bent reality, pushing the waves of time like taffy until the threads between the worlds parted, and he saw into another realm, one made murderous by angels gorging on those dark sounds made by the dead.

  The memory was so intense, Diago thought he felt the floor vibrate beneath his feet. An icy sweat broke over his body.

  The piano stopped.

  Diago blinked. A single drop of sweat trickled down his cheek.

  When he looked again, the gas mask was just a mask. The edges of the mirror reflected the room behind him. Mouth dry, he glanced down, almost afraid to see what other horrors the armoire might hold. On the floor were Joachim’s field pack, ammo pouches, and bread bag.

  I had a flashback, Diago reasoned as he wiped the sweat from his face. That was all. I saw the gas mask and it revived the nightmare that’s been plaguing me. I haven’t slept, my mind is wandering, and if I don’t pull myself together, one of the brothers will find me here.

  Down below
, Rudi didn’t resume playing.

  What if he’s coming up the stairs right now? The thought was enough to startle Diago into action. He closed the armoire’s doors and retreated to the hall, easing Karl’s door shut behind him.

  Returning to the lavatory, he splashed his face with cold water until the gloom of that battle left the corners of his mind. If he kept slipping into waking dreams, he would slip into a fatal error.

  I’ve got to pull myself together. He dried his face and gazed longingly down the hall to the rooms in the other wing. Did one of those closed doors hide a clue to Harvey’s disappearance, or the violin?

  Frau Weber called out to Rudi.

  “I’m going to my room for a few minutes,” Rudi answered. It sounded like the youth was already halfway up the staircase.

  Diago swore under his breath. The rooms on the other side would have to wait. With no desire to see either of the brothers, he returned to his bedroom and shut the door.

  Grabbing a fresh shirt from his bag, he put it on and chose a tie. Moments later, Rudi turned on his radio. The dial squawked through the frequencies until Rudi found a jazz station.

  Oh, I bet Karl loves that, Diago thought as he knotted his tie. Probably as much as he loves Jews and homosexuals.

  He wandered to the window and pushed the drapes aside. Cold hard rain pelted the house in time with the drummer’s beat.

  Leaning his forehead against the cool glass, he absently withdrew the brooch from his pocket and ran his thumb over the emerald. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift as he hummed along with the tune.

  Across the hall, static seeped into the radio signal and garbled the music. An unpleasant buzz infiltrated the station’s frequency.

  Diago fell silent, listening.

  A voice—that was a chorus of voices—snaked into his room on the back of the song and whispered one word, “Vehmgericht.”

  Vehmgericht. It was a word from another incarnation, another time. But the sound of it triggered the memory he had on the train—of standing before a window in his last incarnation while sigils crackled and died on the walls . . .