The Wages of Sin: A Kidnap, a Crucifixion, a Murderer on the Loose

by Inge Löhnig

  ‘It sounds so romantic,’ Melli said.

  Agnes recalled how she’d found this ritual amazing in the beginning, then increasingly annoying and occasionally unsettling.

  Franz and Michael came outside and looked around. When they spotted Agnes and Melli, they came over. The band began to play again. Agnes danced until she couldn’t dance any more.

  * * *

  Dühnfort spent Saturday at headquarters and couldn’t shake off the feeling of wading through thick mud. On the way home, he decided to eat at Bruno’s. Bistro Bruno was near his flat and its name was misleading. The owner’s name was Antonio and he cooked Italian food. Dühnfort went into the restaurant, which was nearly empty. He got a table near the window, ordered antipasti and capretto alla paesana as well as some water and a carafe of Pinot Grigio. The drinks were served immediately. As he drank the wine, he watched people passing by and thought about work.

  The search of the print shop and Prohacek’s residence had turned up neither the remaining ransom money nor any evidence that Jakob had been there. Dühnfort hadn’t anticipated that. The man had taken advantage of the situation and tried to save his company. He should have confessed to that by now, but instead he was saying nothing.

  Lost in thought, Dühnfort nibbled on a breadstick. What worried him was the fact that they hadn’t got any further with their investigation of Kallweit. He had given up his father’s flat after his father had moved into the nursing home. Kallweit’s address book was thin and offered no evidence of a second home, a holiday home or paedophile friends. There were no bills for gas, electricity or water among Kallweit’s papers that didn’t relate to the house in Mariaseeon.

  The plate of appetisers was brought out. The waiter wished him a nice meal and refilled his wine glass. Dühnfort ate fried zucchini, mozzarella with tomatoes and marinated seafood.

  Kallweit now had a lawyer. It wouldn’t be long before he suggested to his client that he confess to all the offences that could not be denied. If Dühnfort couldn’t find evidence or at least substantial clues to indicate that Kallweit had kidnapped Jakob, Kallweit would then be released on bail. His possession of the T-shirt alone was insufficient and Dühnfort didn’t want to risk an identity parade. Alois had been put on Kallweit’s case and was checking his statement.

  The waiter cleared the plates. The restaurant had filled up and nearly all the tables were now occupied. Bits of conversation and the clatter of dishes wove themselves into a tapestry of sound. A few billows of smoke wafted through the room. The air was filled with the scent of grilled meat and pizza, espresso and chocolate. Dühnfort emptied his second glass of wine and thought about Agnes Gaudera, thought about the evening a week ago when he had sat with her in her kitchen. He remembered losing the bet. She hadn’t yet demanded he pay his debt. Too bad. He wondered whether he should call her. Just at that moment, his mobile began to ring in his shirt pocket.

  ‘Hello, Tino.’ His father spoke in a hoarse voice that sounded almost foreign to Dühnfort. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Dühnfort said, wondering what his father wanted. He almost never called.

  ‘I just mean, there’s noise in the background. Are you at a party?’

  ‘You’re not disturbing me. What is it?’

  The waiter topped up the water and the wine. Dühnfort held one ear shut and pressed the phone closer to the other. ‘Dad, are you there?’

  ‘You know, Tino, there is one way in which we are very similar . . .’

  What had his father said? That they were similar? Dühnfort didn’t see that at all. He didn’t want to be like his father. ‘I can’t hear you. Hang on a second.’

  He stood up and gestured to the waiter that he was just stepping out to talk on the phone. He went outside and leaned against a wall of the building. ‘OK. Now I can hear you better.’ It had got dark. The air smelled like May. He wondered whether he should ask his father how the party had gone or if that would only emphasise the fact that he hadn’t been there. For a moment, there was silence.

  ‘I said that you are similar to me in one respect. We both have problems showing our feelings. Your mother always accused me of that . . . I wanted to thank you,’ his father said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever received a gift that I’ve been happier about. The fact that you still remembered after all these years. So, thank you.’

  Dühnfort didn’t know what to say. Again, there was a heavy silence between them. Before he could answer, his father continued.

  ‘By the way, Julius thinks you’ve been irresponsible. He seems to think that I’m a doddery old man. But I’m looking forward to the glider. I’ve already made a booking. If the weather is nice, I’ll go flying next Saturday afternoon. I’ll call and tell you how it went.’

  Dühnfort felt uncomfortable. When was the last time he’d done something that had earned his father’s approval? He didn’t know. Nor did he know how to behave now that he had. Maybe he was overworked, or perhaps he had drunk too much wine and it had made him sluggish and slow to react. Again, it was his father who continued the conversation.

  ‘We should get together, Tino. Come to Sylt this summer. Julius and Victoria won’t be there this year. They’re visiting friends in England. Do you already know about Victoria’s pregnancy?’

  ‘Julius mentioned it briefly.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to becoming a grandfather. Victoria already has a nice little belly and Julius is already planning his progeny’s future. Will you come to the summer cottage? I would be happy to see you.’

  The summer cottage in Sylt. Sea spray. Surf. Seagull cries. The smell of suntan lotion. Sandy skin. Home-made fishing lines. Squeaky boots. Hair tugged by the wind. Rain against the windows. A fire in the hearth. Father reading.

  ‘When?’ Dühnfort asked.

  ‘In August? I can plan around you.’

  ‘Yeah. Sure. I’ll come. Beginning of August. That’ll work,’ Dühnfort said and was suddenly as excited as a child.

  When he returned to his table, the waiter came over and asked if he was ready for his dinner. Dühnfort nodded. At the same time, a thought stirred in the back of his mind.

  Gina had made extensive enquiries in the village, had spoken to the priest, the teachers and the coaches at the sports club, and had even managed to speak to a few young people. But it was still not clear who’d been using the Celtic enclosure for satanic rituals, how Jakob’s teddy bear got there and what that meant for the case.

  Saturday, 24th May

  The sun was nearing the horizon. The night sky would be clear enough to see the Milky Way. It was slowly cooling down. The warm air that lingered above the fields, meadows and lakes from the hot day now mingled with the cool forest air. The resulting breeze carried the scent of barley, hay and water to the chapel and mixed with the smell of yarrow, woodruff and chickweed.

  He took a moment to inhale this early summer smell and then he felt in the gutter. It was wet and slippery. The key was not in its usual place and his fingers wandered through slippery mud. Nausea rose into his throat. He finally found what he was looking for. He cleaned his hands in the damp grass. Then he picked up the flowers and the watering cans, went into the chapel and locked it behind him. Cool air enveloped him and a light breeze stroked his face. He smelled wet plaster, old wood and altar candles. He closed his eyes for a moment to fully enjoy it. Quiet. Peace. Serenity. Then he went to the altar, crossed himself and kissed the feet of his true mother.

  From the room behind the altar he grabbed a bin bag, threw the roses in it and arranged a bouquet of white lilies in the vase. He filled it with fresh water and placed the flowers beside the statue of Mary.

  Today was the anniversary of his rebirth. On this day many years ago, his new life had begun. He removed the old candle stubs from the holders, put in new ones and lit them. The chapel took on a solemn glow. His true mother’s expression was gentle, understanding. A kind smile played around her lips. She knew about their secret, about
their covenant.

  He got the booklet from the shrine behind the statue. Since that day, there had been no more coincidences in his life. This knowledge gave him peace and security. He had discovered the booklet in the chapel all those years ago. A copy of the book of the Confraternity of St John of Nepomuk that someone had stored there. It was old. The pages were yellowed and tattered, the paper brittle. It contained a prayer that seemed like a vow to him. He had taken the vow. Every year on this day he renewed it. He kneeled down, composed himself and in a soft voice addressed the verses to his true mother in the solemn stillness.

  It was a long time since he’d stopped being the child of the woman who’d given birth to him and betrayed him. But she, the Virgin Mary, had given him his new life. She had avenged him. She had sent her angel of death, whose sword had mercilessly pierced the heart of his tormentor. Someone that guilty did not deserve the grace of mercy.

  Mercilessly. What a wonderful word. It had the metallic sound of a well-sharpened blade. He said it aloud. It pierced the silence like the tip of his dagger piercing the flesh of a cat, then died away.

  Silence fell over the room. He remained in front of the Madonna and remembered that terrible day and the following night. First, he saw the hands. His mother’s hands. Bony and rough. There was a knife in one and a potato in the other. The blade slowly slid under the peel and removed it in a spiral, while he searched for words. But there were no words. It was impossible to say it aloud. The spiral came off and landed in a small pile of potato peelings. The hands placed the potato in an enamel bowl full of water and reached for the next one. Again, the knife moved under the peel. Suddenly, it stopped. He looked up and saw his mother’s eyes fixed on him. They were small and a bit too far apart.

  ‘Have you been up to something?’

  No. He hadn’t been up to anything. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Then why are you squirming around like that?’

  He couldn’t say it. But he couldn’t endure it any longer either. Sepp was dead. Pulmonary embolism, his mother had said and then looked away. But he was afraid that this wasn’t the truth. Sepp had been an altar boy and had spent more time with the priest than he had. Sepp had always been fun, but recently he hadn’t been himself. Once, when he gave Sepp a friendly pat on the back, Sepp had screamed and then a bloodstain had appeared on his shirt. Then he knew. And now Sepp was dead. And he knew that he had killed himself. He knew, because he had also considered it.

  ‘Well, what’s going on? Out with it.’

  ‘Nothing, Mum.’ He couldn’t bear it any longer. He had sat down with her because he had to tell her. But he was scared. It was really all his fault. He knew she thought that, that’s why she had avoided him since what had happened to Bene. She was cold and unloving towards him. He couldn’t talk to his father. Since Bene’s death ten years earlier, he’d been drunk most of the time. And when he was drunk, he was unpredictable and he either hit him or cried. Both were equally terrible. The hands on the kitchen clock were at seven minutes to five. Just seven more minutes, then he had to go over there. Over to the priest. The fear dug into his bowels with an icy hand.

  ‘I can tell that something’s wrong.’

  Six minutes to five. He looked her in the eye.

  ‘I do not want to go to the priest today.’ He’d managed to start.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because.’

  ‘ “Because.” ’ She imitated him. ‘Is that the best you can come up with? The priest is an old man and relies on your help.’ She picked up the potato again and continued peeling.

  Four minutes to five. A thin film of cold sweat began to cover his upper lip. His hands felt cold and clammy. His stomach clenched into a lump. He looked for the words.

  Three minutes to five. He couldn’t go over there. He also couldn’t talk to his mother about it. It was all his fault. He had put the lid back on the barrel. Bene told him to do it. The empty barrel was Bene’s submarine in the big meadow behind the community barn and he wanted to take it on a dive. All of the hatches had to be shut, so he obeyed his brother and closed the lid. It was a hot day in August and the barrel stood there in the blazing sun. And then the kitty from the Anthofer farm came, the little red cat he loved so much. So he ran after it and forgot all about Bene. He was five years old. No one knew that he had closed the lid, but he knew that his mother would have preferred it if he’d died rather than Bene. The look that she sometimes gave him said it all. Like a cat, she looked at him, as if she were stalking him, as if she knew the truth. He couldn’t bear that look.

  Two minutes to five.

  He couldn’t tell his mother that it was his fault that Bene died in the barrel. But he had confessed to the priest. He had hoped for the forgiveness of his sins, and God had forgiven him. With the confession, however, he had given his tormentor the weapon that he now used to control him.

  One minute to five. His mother looked at the clock. ‘It’s time,’ she said.

  He felt awful. He stood up and suddenly the words poured out. He didn’t know where he got them from. His mother looked up; shocked, she stared at him. Her mouth hung open. The potato and the knife fell to the table. Her eyes took on a metallic shine, her mouth became a thin line, as it always did when she was angry. Soon she would jump up and run to the priest’s house. She would have a talk with the priest. Maybe she would also go to the police. He was filled with relief. I should have summoned up the courage sooner, he thought, as she jumped up.

  And then something unbelievable happened. He saw how her nostrils flared like the nostrils of a horse when it snorts. Then an icy hand grabbed him by the neck. She dragged him to the sink. He didn’t know what was happening, only remembered fragments. Liar, sinful liar. And then the soap.

  He kneeled before the Madonna and could taste the soap again. He swallowed with some difficulty and said a prayer. Then he felt calm again. The soap taste was gone.

  That evening so many years ago, he’d wanted to kill himself. He took a rope and wandered through the forest until he finally happened upon the chapel – or so he’d thought, as he still believed in coincidences back then. That was the first time he’d taken a close look at the votive paintings. That night, he realised that the Virgin Mary was not just a fantasy figure, but that she really helped and protected those who believed in her. She had saved the man who built the chapel from certain death. A votive picture showed her intervention. She made the oxen stop, when otherwise they would have ended up under a falling tree. Another picture showed an accident with a sledge full of wood. The horse lay buried under the tree trunks and the farmer stood beside them unharmed. And another image depicted a raid by a band of robbers that had been pillaging and murdering their way across the country. The farmers who’d been attacked begged the Mother of God for help. They had only a spark of life left in them when the murderous raiders left the burning, plundered farm behind. The holy breath of life from the Mother of God ignited that spark. Shortly after, the robbers were thrown from a collapsing bridge into a raging river and drowned. The Virgin Mary had punished them. She had avenged the victims and punished the criminals.

  That was when he spoke his first heartfelt prayer, begged the Mother of God for help and found the booklet. He took his vow and prayed that his tormentor be punished. At dawn, he went home unnoticed and crawled into his bed.

  When he came home from school the next day, the news had already made its way round the village. His tormentor was dead. Heart attack. He smiled and went to the chapel to thank his true mother. She had heard his prayers. The covenant was sealed.

  A candle flickered in a draught and went out, just as a life could be extinguished. It was quite simple. He sat in the semi-darkness and thought about the kitty.

  He had been thirteen years old when he cut off the by then elderly kitty’s tail. Eight years. It had taken him eight years to realise that she was to blame. She had lured him away. Just as Eve had seduced Adam into eating the forbidden fruit, she had seduced him into
chasing after her. She was responsible for his forgetting about Bene. She was a creature of Satan. His grandma had also told him to beware of cats because Satan travelled in them. He thought a lot about how he would punish the kitty and prepared for it carefully. First, he tied her four paws to a rack that he had crafted specially. She scratched, meowed and hissed. He secured her mouth shut with superglue. Bitch! Then he cut off her tail. He would never forget it. Her throat puffed out. For a moment, he thought he would hear the cries, like steam escaping from a pressure cooker, but all of the agony sprang from her eyes. Mute pain. Enhanced pleasure. Then he sliced her open. Slippery entrails and blood spilled out. The beast looked at him. Her gaze a plea for mercy. But he wasn’t interested in bestowing mercy. When the life had drained from her, her eyes were milky, otherwordly and dead. That had been the greatest moment. A moment he had wanted to relive over and over again ever since.

  Sunday, 25th May

  The evening was balmy and the sun was just above the treetops, giving the landscape a red-gold shimmer. Agnes went over to see Melli. A week had passed since the wedding and Franz and Michael had set off on their motorbike trip the day before yesterday.

  The old cottage that Melli had inherited from her great-aunt was situated in the middle of a lovingly planted garden. It wasn’t in good condition, but she and Franz had renovated it and turned it into a gem.

  Agnes checked the time as she walked down the paved path to the house. Just past eight. Michael and Franz should have been back by now. But there were no motorbikes in front of the garage. Agnes rang the bell and Melli let her in. The house was tiny. There was a small hallway with a cupboard and narrow steps leading upstairs. Off to the right was the kitchen and off to the left the living room and dining area. Simple striped cotton curtains hung at the lattice windows. Colourful patchwork rugs lay on the polished floors. There was a pine table in the middle, which Melli had set with white porcelain and crystal glasses. There was a delicious smell coming from the kitchen.