This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Hendrik Falkenberg
Translation copyright © 2016 Patrick F. Brown
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as Die Zeit heilt keine Wunden by Amazon Publishing in Germany in 2015. Translated from German by Patrick F. Brown. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2016.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503933477
ISBN-10: 1503933474
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary-Soudant
CONTENTS
THE BEGINNING
SUNDAY EVENING, TEN YEARS LATER
SUNDAY NIGHT INTO MONDAY MORNING
MONDAY AT NOON
MONDAY EVENING
MONDAY NIGHT INTO TUESDAY MORNING
TUESDAY MORNING
TUESDAY AFTERNOON
TUESDAY NIGHT INTO WEDNESDAY MORNING
WEDNESDAY MORNING
WEDNESDAY EVENING
WEDNESDAY NIGHT INTO THURSDAY MORNING
THURSDAY MORNING
THURSDAY AT NOON
THURSDAY AFTERNOON
EARLY THURSDAY EVENING
LATE THURSDAY EVENING
THURSDAY NIGHT
THURSDAY NIGHT INTO FRIDAY MORNING
FRIDAY MORNING
LATE FRIDAY MORNING
FRIDAY EVENING
FRIDAY NIGHT
FRIDAY NIGHT INTO SATURDAY MORNING
SATURDAY MORNING
SATURDAY AT NOON
SATURDAY NIGHT INTO SUNDAY MORNING
EARLY SUNDAY MORNING
LATE SUNDAY MORNING
SUNDAY AFTERNOON
SUNDAY EVENING
ONE WEEK LATER
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
THE BEGINNING
i have been watching you
for years
ever since i discovered who you are and who you were
i see what you do and what you have done
i feel the pain you have caused this world
i behold the sorrow for which you must answer
i endure the lifelong wounds for which you bear the blame
day after day
don’t think you can escape me
turn around and you won’t see me—but i am there
run, try to escape me—and i will be waiting for you
the time has come for you to pay—god won’t be the one to judge you
you will experience the pain so many have suffered because of you
sorrow will knock on your door and you will wish you had never been born
perhaps you have forgotten, so i am here to remind you
there is no mercy, no forgiveness
time heals no wounds
There was no indication of sender or recipient. The letter was simply found lying on the doormat one spring morning. But the person who picked it up knew for certain that it wasn’t meant for anyone else.
SUNDAY EVENING, TEN YEARS LATER
The waves crashed against the outcropping of rocks with such force that the spray flew several feet high. Dark clouds drifted across the blue-gray sky, a harbinger of the shifting weather. Seagulls cried and circled over the rugged coastline. In the distance, a combine harvester traced lonely paths across a rapeseed field. A rumble of thunder came from far off, then a bolt of lightning illuminated the horizon. It had not rained for weeks, and the community longed for it. The wind was still calm and the air muggy, but the waves intensified.
The beach lay deserted in the fading light. A lone figure trudged along the surf with quick, determined steps, his black rubber boots continuously bathed by whitecaps. With each wave, the water rose higher, ready to pull the old man out to sea. His boot prints in the coarse sand were immediately washed smooth by each breaker.
He stared out to sea. Time had not been kind to his face. Deep ridges traversed his brown, leathery skin, creating a unique map of life. He wore a crooked blue wool cap over his bald head, old-fashioned corduroys, and a moss-green parka that showed signs of deterioration. He carried a small fishing net over his shoulder and gripped his cane with a shaky hand.
He scanned the beach as he walked through the foaming water. Sometimes he poked around the seaweed and picked up tiny items and placed them in his leather belt pouch. The threat of severe weather did not hurry him. The old man raised his head, as if he could hear the voices of a bygone era amid the mounting roar and rumble of the elements.
Suddenly, he fixed on something. From a hundred yards away, the cries of the seagulls sounded like a deafening chorus as they flew over the section of the beach at the foot of the cliffs that the locals called “the shark fin” on account of their unusual shape. Some of the birds swooped down to the beach, while others swarmed above.
He charged toward the protruding rock formation. The seagulls flew away and watched as the wide-eyed man pushed aside a clump of seaweed with his cane. He emitted a few unintelligible sounds, then recoiled. He turned and rushed to the cliffs, stumbling up a narrow path, using his cane to steady himself. His chest heaved as he struggled to reach the top of the cliff, then he staggered toward the combine rolling over the rapeseed field.
The first heavy raindrops hit the dusty ground, while gusts of wind ruffled the dune grass.
Exactly four and a half miles from the beach, Merle also heard the thunder of the approaching storm. The room remained unchanged, shrouded in darkness, its stale air musty. Even the dazzling flashes of lightning, which now struck at ever shorter intervals, failed to penetrate the confines of the enclosure.
The darkness awoke in the young woman memories of her childhood. Memories that she still found difficult to bear. Her mother had changed partners so quickly that she could barely keep the names straight, but the pain that emanated from their venomous insults never changed.
One evening, another of her mother’s lovers had scrutinized her as she foolishly snuck to the fridge for a cold soda.
“Aren’t you fat enough already?” he had said before turning to her mother, who had been lying listlessly on the sofa, her face puffy. His next words had been the purest of poisons. “Put your daughter on a diet, otherwise she’ll never get a boyfriend!”
Merle had glared at her mother and tried to shield herself against the alcoholic haze that permeated the room. She wanted her mother to defend her just this once. “You’re fat and ugly too, you know!” Merle wanted to say. “You spend your life in this shithole, letting yourself get fucked by any bum who comes your way, and you’re drunk before you’ve even had breakfast! You disgust me!”
Instead of saying anything, Merle ran up the stairs to the bathroom. She heard chairs being knocked over downstairs, followed by a nasty, guttural laugh.
“It’s true. I really am ugly!” she had said to herself that night as she looked in the mirror. “The boys at school laugh at me and the girls ignore me. I’m fat and covered in zits, and my breasts haven’t started growing!”
Merle’s bedroom gave only the illusion of a safe retreat, because her mother had hidden the key to her door. Lately Merle felt an urgent need to transform her room into an impregnable fortress, especially since a strange lust had now crept into the glances of her mothe
r’s boyfriends.
Since her mother rarely came upstairs, Merle’s changes to her room went unnoticed for a week. But when her mother opened the door one morning, she was shocked.
“Have you lost your mind? What is this? Some kind of tomb?”
Merle had painted the walls black and glued dark, opaque fabric to the window. All the furniture had been painted black, and she’d tossed everything she couldn’t paint into the closet. Merle had even found black bedding.
“So you want to be a vampire? Fine by me! It’s no wonder, given where you come from!”
Merle’s mother never alluded to her father and ignored all questions about him. Before Merle could dig any deeper, her mother took off down the stairs to have another drink.
“Great idea! I might as well become a vampire!”
And so the transformation of Merle’s room was soon followed by the transformation of Merle von Hohenstein herself. The somewhat chubby, shy girl with mysterious green eyes and a distinctive birthmark under her right eye morphed into a forbidding figure. Her baggy black clothing, dyed hair, dark makeup, and pale skin ensured she would be left alone.
These measures allowed Merle to enjoy a peaceful teenage existence for the next two years. But the morning after her graduation, Merle had undergone another radical change.
She laid out items from trendy fashion boutiques on the bed. Not a single piece of clothing was black. Merle stripped naked and walked into the bathroom. She ripped a sheet off the small mirror. For two years, it had prevented her from scrutinizing her looks. She stood, shoulders back, eyes fixed on the image in the mirror. No trace of fat or pimples—even her breasts had developed into apple-sized mounds.
“A little pale, but that will soon change,” she had said.
Half an hour later, Merle stepped into the cool morning air wearing a flowery sundress and carrying a large sports bag. She looked at the house of her joyless childhood and took several deep breaths, then walked through the rusty garden gate, never to return.
Goose bumps ran down Merle’s arms as she stood almost ten years later in that dark room, reflecting on her childhood. She jumped at another clap of thunder. The sudden scare also reminded her of the past.
She had wondered why her mother always had enough money despite never getting a regular job. Merle’s grandparents had died early and except for their aristocratic last name had left nothing worth mentioning. Nevertheless, the wallet in the old hall dresser was always well stocked, and Merle had been able to swipe a considerable amount over the years without ever being caught. This money had gone a long way in helping her start her new life. Later on, while getting her degree in journalism, she’d discovered the source of all the money by sifting through the past.
The last several years had been bright and cheerful, and in ten hours and forty minutes, at 5:16 a.m., she would celebrate the ten-year anniversary of when she’d fled this hellhole and was born again into a brand-new life.
Another thousand yards to go. Johannes Niehaus pulled the paddle through the water with all his strength, propelling the canoe to the finish line of the regatta. The bass hammering in his headphones was rounded out by wailing guitars. Fast rock music always psyched him up when he practiced. Had MP3 players been allowed in competitions, he probably would have already achieved his goal of qualifying for the Olympics.
The sky grew darker, and the rain soaked Johannes’s workout clothes. A blustery headwind grew stronger by the minute. The trees along the shoreline waved, and the almost glassy water rippled. He heard a loud clap of thunder over his music and jumped. The change in weather did not actually bother him: he had managed many storms in his canoe. However, since the amount of time between the lightning and the thunder was getting shorter, he pushed himself harder despite the wind.
A few hours ago, he had been sitting on a train on his way back from his parents’ house, which was about three hours away in a tiny town. A big departure from the bustle of the city, where he had moved six years ago. He had applied to an athlete-development program and been accepted to the Olympic Training Center, along with an offer from the police academy for a job reserved for top athletes. Upon finishing police training, Johannes was assigned an administrative role that consisted mainly of filing, copying, and writing memos. When he’d asked for something more challenging, he was assigned to the Criminal Investigation Department, but little changed in his day-to-day work. Since his time as a competitive athlete was coming to an end, Johannes had tried to improve his job prospects by applying internally to another position. As a result, he was assigned to Detective Chief Fritz Janssen from homicide, who was known as a tough old man who believed in unconventional detective work. Behind his back, he was known as “Old Fritz”—loved by some, hated by others.
When Steffen Lauer, head of the department, had informed Old Fritz that he would have to spend his last three years working with a young partner, he exploded.
“What am I supposed to do with a rookie who barely shows up?”
“I thought it’d be a perfect fit,” Lauer said. “Not much will change, and with your experience and . . . somewhat unorthodox work habits, Mr. Niehaus will quickly get the hang of being in the field. The boy has paddled his arms off for our country, so give him a chance!”
Lauer stroked his bald head and twirled his mustache—a common tic. He was short and wiry, and as a passionate amateur triathlete, he had a soft spot for athletes. He was extremely popular with his staff because he gave them lots of leeway and always defended them in critical situations.
“At least he’d earn a living doing real work,” Fritz said. “Still! I have no desire to be someone’s nanny. Make someone else do it!”
Johannes stood outside the half-open door and was unsure if he should enter. Ingrid Meier, the energetic and portly secretary of the Criminal Investigation Department, made the decision for him. She came up from behind and swung open the door.
“Mr. Niehaus is here,” she said.
Fritz turned to Johannes, his face bright red, obviously unsure how much Johannes had overheard. Mrs. Meier smiled cattily.
“Glad you came in, Mr. Niehaus,” Lauer said, giving Fritz a look of warning. “This is Mr. Janssen, who will introduce you to the practical side of police work and murder investigations over the next few years.”
“Two years,” Fritz said. He looked at Johannes and was confused by his different-colored eyes. “So you’re the rower,” he said, and Johannes’s ears glowed with embarrassment.
“Canoeist.”
Confused, Fritz looked at Lauer. “What’s the difference?”
“There are several differences,” Johannes explained. “Canoeists use different boats, either a Canadian—as I do—or a kayak. Canoeists also use a paddle and face the direction they’re going, rowers sit opposite.”
“See, you already have something in common,” said Lauer. “Mr. Janssen is also in his element on the water. Isn’t that right, Fritz? You spend every free minute on your old shrimp boat!”
Fritz stared at Johannes through his rimless glasses. With his thick eyebrows, he was somewhat reminiscent of an owl, and it was impossible to glean anything from his faded blue eyes. Lauer quickly put an end to the awkward meeting and left the details for another day.
It was not until the following Monday that Johannes had seen Old Fritz again.
“Morning,” Fritz said when he arrived at work. With a coffee in hand, he shuffled through the small anteroom, which had been transformed from the copy/storage area for Johannes’s use, and went into his office.
Uncertain if he should approach him, Johannes spent the morning trying to make his “office” a little more appealing. Only after lunch did he knock on Fritz’s door. When no answer came, he opened it. Apart from two locked floor-to-ceiling closets, an almost empty desk, and two chairs, there was nothing.
Over the next few days, Johannes did not see Fritz. However, by Friday, he could no longer contain himself. In the small break room, he spoke to a young c
olleague about Fritz’s absence.
“Fritz? I saw him just now in the hallway, and yesterday he was at a meeting.”
Johannes was confused. “Does he maybe have another office?”
“Nope.” She took a closer look at him and pushed a strand of brown curly hair from her face. “Aren’t you the athlete who was assigned to him? You’d be the one to know where he’s hiding!”
“I . . . um . . . I only saw him briefly on Monday,” he mumbled.
“Ah, well then, the rumors must be true: Old Fritz will move heaven and earth to get rid of you,” she said and smiled. “Don’t read too much into it. I had to work with him before too. He may seem a little grumpy at first, but he’s actually a really nice guy.”
He did not know what to say. “Nice guy” and Fritz did not exactly go hand in hand. His thoughts must have read like neon letters across his forehead.
“Don’t believe everything people say about him. Fritz may have his own way of doing things, but he gets away with it because he’s so successful. For some, that’s cause for resentment. Not to mention that most people here don’t really get his sense of humor.”
Unless this game of hide-and-seek was meant to be some kind of joke, he had yet to encounter any humor in Fritz. Johannes walked to Fritz’s door and opened it. Fritz sat in the chair behind his desk and eyed Johannes.
“Well, look who decided to show up!”
Johannes gulped. “I . . . um . . . thought you had gone on vacation,” he said.
Fritz ran a finger over a large scar on his left cheek. “Fine!” He slammed his hands on the desk. “I’ve spent the whole week trying to avoid you, but obviously everyone has conspired against me, so we’ll have to learn to get along somehow. However, let me make one thing clear: I will not change anything about my work habits, nor do I want you to do anything without speaking to me first! Your place is next door in the copy . . . uh . . . in the office, and you’re not to touch anything in here. I don’t want any clutter in my space!”
Johannes looked around the room. It was clinically sterile. Even the desk, with its computer keyboard pushed aside, showed no evidence of actual police work. The only personal accessory he’d noticed was a small picture frame holding a faded photograph of a slender, good-looking woman with her arm around a little boy.
Time Heals No Wounds Page 1
