Knives, Forks, Scissors, Flames

by Stefan Kiesbye

  “What do you mean?”

  Friedrich looked at him with a mixture of pride and scorn, but there was something else, something that Benno could not interpret.

  “The old pastor was one of us. He was always there when we murdered the old king. Cornelius was my choice. He wanted souls. Damn Baptists. Wanted to sell us his God. That was fine with me. For twenty-four years I’ve been trying to undermine my own position.”

  Benno sat very straight, his fingers clenched around the torch. His hands were all wet.

  “Nothing happens without my approval,” Friedrich said. “The widow needed my permission to rent your apartment. And you looked quite harmless. Young guy with a wife and child. Quite what I needed. And you, you are really quite harmless, stumbling awkwardly about and asking your stupid and impertinent questions. And so vain. You wanted to play family, but you don’t have what it takes. Am I wrong? But the boy . . .” He did not finish his thought.

  Benno looked at his clock. Almost an hour had passed since he had attacked the dealer. He had to hurry if he didn’t want to run the risk of being surprised by Friedrich’s family.

  “Where is Tim?”

  Without answering the question, Friedrich said, “This year I must step down, but I don’t want to die. I’m not old and weak. Look at me! Why do we have modern medicine and health insurance? We live to 80 years and longer. I am 47, I don’t intend to be slaughtered. A lot of people don’t like that.” He paused for a moment. “Who is responsible if corn prices fall, or if cows don’t give enough milk anymore? If the competition in Lübeck undercuts Johannsen’s prices? God?”

  “Where is Tim?” Benno asked again.

  “The pastor had to endear himself to my successor. He knew everything.”

  “I believed he had killed Irina.”

  “The pastor?” Friedrich shook his head and smiled. “Never. But he knew where I kept her hidden. I told him myself.” He sighed.

  “And Cornelius told Wehrke?”

  Friedrich shrugged. “Or his wife. Or my wife. It would have been better not to marry, not to have children. In the past, kings often preferred to remain childless. Without children, the curse would hit another family when their reign was over.”

  Benno stood up, weighed the flashlight in his hand. “Where is Tim?”

  Friedrich laughed. “I don’t have him. Wehrke and his Twelve Nights spectacle have put fear in people, and fear is stronger than faith in a miracle skin. I didn’t wish the boy any harm, I just wanted to save my own skin. So Wehrke had to take him. It’s that simple. It’s my fault. Go on, hit me. Don’t you stop!”

  Music came from the speakers, and the driver’s door was wide open and let the densely falling snow drift inside. A man in the passenger seat fed Rasmus something Benno couldn’t make out.

  From the interior of the car came Andreas Wehrke’s voice, which sounded very gentle, despite its volume. “Good evening, Diedrich. Your dog here is such a sweetheart.”

  Benno slowly approached the car. Snow hit his neck. Had Wehrke passed the dealership by accident and discovered the car? Or did he know what had happened inside the warehouse?

  “Good evening,” he said.

  “Don’t look so mad. Your dog and I are already great friends. Do you want another piece?” The question was addressed to Rasmus, and Benno saw that Wehrke held a bar of chocolate in his hand.

  “Stop,” he yelled, “you’re poisoning the dog.”

  “Is that right?” asked Wehrke. “But he seems to enjoy it.”

  Benno tore open the back door, but the next moment he was grabbed from behind and pressed against the fender. “Take it easy,” said a voice that seemed strangely familiar to him. And a second added, “Search him.” Benno felt how one of the men groped his legs and emptied his pockets onto the ground. Then he was released.

  With difficulty, Benno stood up and turned around. Günther Dithmann, the tow truck driver, and Wehrke’s son Harald stood before him and looked amused.

  “What have you done to Friedrich?” Wehrke got out of the car, crumpled the purple paper, threw it to the ground, walked around the car and joined his son. “Have you done our dirty work for us?”

  Benno shook his head. “What have you done with Tim?” From the car came a faint whimper.

  “Did he tell you how ill he felt back then? How the new king almost fainted when his dead father lay before him? How he gagged when I pressed the knife into his hand? That was a bad sign. But this time we will crown a real king. You will have to hurry, though,” said Wehrke. “Your boy will soon run out of breath.”

  Günther grimaced and quickly lowered his head. Wehrke seemed not to notice. He put his hands on his son’s shoulders and said, “Time to claim your inheritance.”

  Bewildered, Harald turned to his father. “The shooting festival . . .”

  “We won’t wait any longer. Go and show yourself worthy of the honor.”

  “Right now? Alone?”

  Wehrke took a step back and slapped Harald. “Yes, right now. Alone.”

  Harald held his cheek, looked from his father to Günther and finally addressed Benno. “Don’t look at me like that!”

  “You’re the new king? Because of you that woman had to be murdered. Then you found out that I was searching for Irina’s killer, and you got cold feet. You kidnapped Sybille and made sure that she would not reveal what she had found on the corpse. Corinna had told you about the corpse and about Sybille. And you took advantage of her trust. Sybille didn’t tell on the boy. She didn’t tell you who had the doll. And now you’ve kidnapped Tim.” Benno’s voice cracked. Then he forced himself to calm down. “Have you no fear of being killed?”

  The young Wehrke had listened without blinking. He said, “It’s not yet time to die.” Then he clenched his fists, swung quickly and struck Benno in the face.

  Benno could hear his nose break, and tears came to his eyes. Instinctively, he held his arms over his face, but nothing happened. Instead, he heard how Harald stepped away in the direction of the spare parts inventory.

  “Well, come on, Diedrich,” said Wehrke. He went to Benno, took his arms away from his face, looked at the injury. “Not too bad,” he said with satisfaction. “My brother found the conversations with you very entertaining, but he knows who he depends on for his pension. Nothing personal. He really regrets that you are leaving the village.”

  “That I am leaving the village?” stammered Benno. Tears ran down his cheeks, he could hardly keep his eyes open.

  “Yes, right now. Don’t you want to save your dog? And see your lover again?”

  “You’re letting me go?” He could hear the greed in his question, the irrepressible desire to escape.

  “Sure. We could make you disappear, but in such a tight-knit community such as ours, you have to be careful. You cannot trust anyone, can you, Günther? Take Günther, for example. Friedrich treated him almost like a son. An illegitimate, ill-bred son, but still. And how does this lad thank him?”

  Günther’s face hardened. All life disappeared from the surface, even his eyes seemed to go out. His cap was already covered in snow.

  “I will prove myself grateful. He will be part of the family, my family. He will continue to run the business here. Without Friedrich.” He turned back to Benno. “You will leave now, and never show your face here again. Your own life should be worth more to you than that of your stepson. Go away, forget about us. Your wife has already forgotten about you.” He turned to leave, but stopped suddenly. “The doll,” he said. “Where is it?”

  Benno opened the trunk. Wehrke took it, whistling through his teeth. “Ralf confessed right after you left. Got cold feet. His father knew what to do.” Then he stepped away from the trunk and walked back to his own car, a Mercedes Benno hadn’t noticed before. For a brief moment Wehrke turned his face, but Benno couldn’t make out his features. Seconds later, the car slipped from the lot.

  “Well, get out of here already,” Günther raised his fists.

 
Benno ducked, and got in the car. “Where is Tim?”

  “Go,” Guenther said, looking in the direction of the spare parts inventory.

  “Where is he? Is he still alive?”

  “Enough of that, fuck off!”

  “Please?”

  Günther’s face twitched, his fists fell to his side. Once again he glanced at the warehouse, then said quietly, “Widow Schmied.” And when Benno kept waiting for an explanation, he repeated, “Fuck off.”

  26

  His house lay in darkness, and no lights were visible behind Mrs. Schmied’s curtains, but from the half-open church door came a faint glow.

  As fast as his ankle allowed, Benno ran into the house and into Tim’s room. There on the desk was the brown bottle with hydrogen peroxide. The vet had advised him to keep it, and it sat next to the pictures of mutilated faces.

  After a few seconds Rasmus puked on the car seat. To make sure, Benno gave him a second spoon. The dog choked until nothing more was coming. Then he stared at his vomit, but before he could lick it up, Benno pulled him from the car. He greedily drank the water Benno poured for him.

  The church door was still open, and carefully Benno stepped inside. He shook the snow from his clothes, but he was completely soaked. When he entered from the vestibule, a single candelabrum was burning, and no one seemed to be present.

  “Hello,” he shouted, and got an uncertain echo in reply. Benno was grateful that no crucified Jesus stared at him while he was trudging past the pews. Rasmus followed him half-stunned, but unwilling to be left alone.

  They found Cornelius in the sacristy. The pastor knelt at the baptismal font, and his glasses had slipped down his nose and fallen into the basin. His arms were spread out, almost tenderly he held the font in an embrace, and his head was bent over an old inscription, as though he wanted to study it yet again. The hole in his head was as big as a five-mark piece, the right side of his face hung in tatters.

  Rasmus approached the dead man and sniffed at his clothes. Then he pricked his ears.

  Benno could hear the voices too. He backed away from the baptismal font and looked around the corner into the church. Carolin stood in the open door, together with Pastor Thomas. She wore a light down jacket, kept her hand in the pocket of his black wool coat. Benno’s heart couldn’t keep up with his eyes, and it nearly forgot to beat. Rasmus trotted toward his mistress, bushy tail wagging.

  “What are you doing here?” she said in high voice reserved for small children and pets. Only then she looked up and saw Benno, and the tender expression on her face faded. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  Her question sent a chill through Benno. He would have liked to hobble toward Thomas and break his thin nose. But wordlessly, he walked past the couple, stepped into the vestibule, where fliers announced the next church services, and from there into the open.

  Only his own tracks, and those of Thomas and Carolin appeared in the snow. The VW Golf of the young pastor stood next to his own car. The silence around him was hard to bear.

  The moment Gustav Heintz flung open the door and stepped outside, a rifle in his hands, Benno could hear Carolin cry out. He looked at the old man’s face and could see that he knew that she had found the dead pastor.

  “What are you doing here?” Heintz said angrily.

  “Why have you betrayed Friedrich?” Without waiting for an answer, Benno stepped toward the old man until Heintz pushed the muzzle of the gun against his chest. “I’m going down to the basement and I will get my boy,” he said softly.

  “The hell you are,” Heintz said. Despite the cold, he wore only a white undershirt. His muscles were hard and tough, his arms gnarled. “Piss off, Diedrich. Or I’ll shoot you right here.”

  “Like the pastor?” asked Benno.

  Heintz hesitated, his mouth open. “Yeah, like the pastor. He told Wehrke about Irina, told him that I had her. Wanted to be in the new king’s good graces and save his church. But then he didn’t want to get his hands dirty. First he tells on me, and then he calls me a murderer.”

  Snowflakes flew in Benno’s eyes, he squinted against his will, pressing his chest against the gun muzzle. “When I was at the police station, you grabbed the boy. My wife borrowed your car and you went straight next door. Tim probably didn’t even put up a fight. He trusted you. Did Wehrke put you up to this? What has he promised you? Or have you done it for free to save your own skin?” His voice was shrill. “But you won’t shoot me from behind. You have to shoot me in the face.” He broke off, fear constricted his throat. He didn’t want to die, not now.

  He hadn’t noticed Manfred approach. All of a sudden he stood behind Heintz, his arm wrapped around the neck of the old man, the engraved blade held under his chin. Heintz’ face turned red, blood ran into the white undershirt. “This is how it’s done,” Manfred said through clenched teeth as though he were giving instructions to an invisible student. “This is how it’s done right.” Benno grabbed the rifle, tore it from Heintz’ hands. He had never owned a firearm. He didn’t even know if the gun was loaded or how to release the safety.

  “I got him,” Manfred said, panting, and pulled Heintz inside the house.

  Benno hurried past him and crossed the workshop. On the walls hung Snow White and Cinderella and the Pied Piper of Hamelin, curiously watching the commotion.

  The basement door was locked. With the rifle butt, he hit the latch, even though he understood how futile that was.

  “Let him go, you silly boy.” Mrs. Schmied’s voice came from the workshop. She looked like a ghostly apparition. Her customary bun was gone, long white hair flowed around her face, and she was wearing her nightgown beneath a robe. For the first time he could see what Friedrich had said about her beauty. It was still there, had not completely drained from her face. Anger and fear animated her face. With her bare hands she hit her son, who kept Heintz in a headlock. The old man barely struggled anymore, his face beet red.

  “Leave him alone,” cried Benno. “Where is the key to the basement?”

  Startled, the widow looked at the gun, and let go of Manfred. She bent over Heintz’ limp body, rummaged through his pockets. With trembling fingers she handed Benno a set of keys. She smelled of apple shampoo.

  “Poor boy,” she said. “The poor woman.”

  Benno backed away from her. Hadn’t she known all along what was going on in her house? She had made her home available to Friedrich, she had followed his desperate plan. Had he offered her money? Had she done it for her son? Friedrich’s son?

  After the second attempt, the basement door opened. The steps were narrow and steep. In the dim light of a naked bulb, he descended the stairs. He kept the rifle at the ready.

  The floor was covered with green carpet, and cocktail chairs from the Sixties stood around like lost sheep. A bar took up almost a third of the space. A strong odor entered his nostrils, his eyes kept searching for a light switch, and seconds later the room was bathed in greenish light coming from two overhead lamps.

  Liquor and wine bottles stood on shelves behind the counter. In the back of the room, a short hallway with bare concrete walls branched off.

  The steel door wasn’t locked. It led into a small room, where a fabric-covered sun-lounger was the only furniture. A sink was mounted on a wall, and a toilet had been installed in the corner next to it. The room might have been nine or ten square meters, and was otherwise empty. Nothing indicated that Irina had ever lived here.

  Nor was there any sign of Tim. Had Günther lied to him?

  Benno laboriously climbed the stairs to Heintz’ apartment. He didn’t know how to handle the rifle, but it felt good in his hands. He carefully opened the door, thankful that it was still unlocked. Yet the sight that greeted him made his heart sink. Manfred sat on the floor, in his mother’s arms. He was looking startled at his too-short gray pants, where a bloodstain spread. The handle of his knife protruded from his abdomen. Heintz was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where is Tim?”

&n
bsp; Benno spun around, almost pulled the trigger. In the door to Heintz’ bedroom stood Carolin.

  But he had no time for explanations. “Rasmus!” he shouted, and ran outside. Only his own car and Thomas’ stood in the yard; the yellow Taunus was gone, its tracks visible in the snow. Rasmus crouched near the entrance to their own apartment. When he saw Benno, he came slowly toward him, but Benno had to grab him by the collar to drag him over the threshold into Heintz’ house. At the basement door, the dog’s demeanor changed. He growled, bared his teeth, then he barked and did a strange little dance on the landing. Finally he shot down the stairs.

  Benno followed the dog, Carolin on his heels. They found Rasmus in front of the steel door, acting crazily. He had both paws on the doorknob and barked. Benno threw the door open, and the dog ran into the little room and jumped on the sun-lounger, sniffing wildly, lifting his head, howling, sniffing again. Then he sat down with a pitiful whimper. Confused, he looked around. He had found Irina, but where was she? He could smell her, but where had Benno hidden her?

  “Rasmus.” Reluctantly, the dog let himself be led from the room, but in the small hallway he became active again. He sniffed at the corners, smelled the stone walls, and then stood at the very end of the corridor. He turned his head to Benno and looked at him with his slightly crosseyed stare.

  Benno stepped closer and inspected the wall. The greenish light cast only a faint glow in the hall, but where the dog stood, the bricks were a little darker and wouldn’t quite fit into the neat rows around them. Benno now recognized the odor that was so repugnant to him. It was fresh cement.

  With his fists he hammered on the stone. “Tim,” he shouted, and Carolin joined him. Then they listened, and Benno pressed his ear against the wall. They got no response.

  The small table, with which he struck the wall, shattered. He found no tools behind the bar, nothing that would make the wall budge. Angry and with tears in his eyes, he made his way into Heintz’ apartment. He had come too late, Tim was no longer alive. He himself would die here. Harald, Günther, Wehrke or Schmoeh would show up at any minute and make him disappear. They had allowed for Irina’s body to be found only to taunt Friedrich and let the entire village know that the old king was weak. This time Wehrke wouldn’t leave behind any evidence.