Obsessed

by Ted Dekker

  “They have dogs in the garage.”

  “I’m not sure the dogs survived your friends.”

  “Okay.” Stephen paced. His body quivered, and he doubted it had anything to do with the jackhammer. “This could really work.”

  “Of course. That’s why we’re doing it. Why don’t you catch a couple hours of sleep? We may be in there by noon tomorrow, and we’re definitely going to need you awake.”

  “Noon, huh?” He could hardly stand the wait. “Why can’t we press through tonight? If the gravel is that easy, we could be in by morning!”

  “Maybe, but we can’t start beating on their floor in the middle of the night when the whole world’s asleep. They’ll hear us for sure. We need a distraction.”

  “You could blast music from the sidewalk. You know, just a couple of hippies playing their music too loud.”

  “I don’t have a stereo.”

  “I’ll buy you one.”

  “Not loud enough.”

  “You want louder?”

  “You want a ring of guys with guns standing over the hole when we come out?”

  Stephen paced again. This one small problem could be a spoiler. Maybe he could call Sparks and ask his boys to create a distraction. Not a chance.

  Another idea dropped into his mind, a gift from the God who favored the oppressed. He stopped and turned slowly to Sweeney.

  “I’ve got it.”

  31

  Los Angeles

  July 24, 1973

  Tuesday Night

  THE BOY WAS CLOSE. STEPHEN WAS VERY CLOSE. THIS MIGHT BE Roth’s last night of hunting.

  Tonight he would plan a special surprise for Stephen. He’d decided that the friend named Sylvia would be his next victim. She wasn’t exactly a blood relative of Stephen’s, but she was a Jew and she was a woman.

  He’d considered killing the old man and spent two hours watching Chaim Leveler’s house earlier that evening. But breaking protocol could adversely affect the cosmic order of power, so he rejected the idea.

  Few people understood that the powers of the air were carefully balanced and even the slightest change could upset this perfection. Rituals had to be performed with precision. If you decided to harvest the souls of Jews, but then switched to Russians, for example, you might lose all of the benefit derived from taking Jews.

  This was Gerhard’s downfall. He’d broken the rules of his own ritual by allowing Martha and the children to live after selecting them with the scarf.

  As a result he’d lost all of his power. A single decision made in a moment of weakness had robbed him of power. Now the only way to restore that power was to kill those who should have been killed in the first place. Gerhard would be vindicated. His power restored.

  Then Roth could take that power and kill him.

  Roth’s present indulgences, on the other hand, weren’t a matter of precision. He was simply adding to his pleasure. He was showing the pow- ers of the air that he was the kind of vessel that deserved the might they would pour into him when it was all over, in a matter of days now.

  Then again, he could use the woman Sylvia as a pawn against the Stephen. Yes, yes, he could do that. Roth smiled, pleased with himself for thinking so broadly about the challenges that lay before him.

  He parked the car in the alley behind her apartment complex. He’d killed eight women since coming to Los Angeles. Eight in six nights. He would decide when he saw her whether she would be the ninth. A part of him was tempted to delay killing so that when he took Stephen, his thirst for blood would be ripe.

  Another interesting thought.

  Roth pulled out another red silk scarf and pressed it to his nose as he always did. Inhaled. He draped it over his neck and tucked it into his shirt. If anyone saw him strolling the alley with a red scarf, they might connect him immediately to the other killings, and the thought excited him.

  He wouldn’t be caught, naturally. He might have to change his plans for the night, but they would never catch him.

  Roth pulled his black gloves on and stepped into the dark alley.

  SYLVIA HAD spent the evening as she had spent the last three evenings— returning to her apartment late from work, eating a meat loaf TV dinner and talking to Chaim about Stephen and the Red Scarf Killer, as they were calling him, before retiring at about eleven.

  Chaim had left five messages and then called her from a hotel. He was nearly frantic about something Stephen had told him about danger. And he’d seen a black car parked down his street, so he’d packed up and moved into a hotel room for the night.

  Sylvia’s first response was one of alarm. The rabbi was overreacting. Stephen was a grown adult, not a child.

  If anyone had something to be concerned about, it was Sylvia, she said. The killer was still selecting only single Jewish women. He’d upped his nightly quotient to two.

  “Then you must come, Sylvia! Spend the night here with me.”

  “In the Howard Johnson’s?”

  “In another room, of course. I insist.”

  “Please, Rabbi. You’re taking all of this too far. What is the likelihood that I would be selected by a serial killer in a city this size? He’s never broken into an apartment. I have neighbors on all sides here. And I lock my doors with dead bolts.”

  “Then come for my benefit. Maybe I am overreacting, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m frightened.”

  She’d spoken to him for nearly half an hour, and when she finally hung up she wondered if her refusal to go was insensitive. She peered out of her window, but saw nothing but an empty alley and the glow of distant city lights.

  The one-bedroom apartment was silent. Kitchen with breakfast bar to her right. Bedroom to her left. What if the killer had sneaked in before she’d returned home?

  After a moment of contemplation, she satisfied the ghosts of concern by checking the lock, the closet, even the cupboards in the kitchen.

  No killer. Of course not.

  She brushed her teeth, washed off her makeup, slipped into a yellow-and-blue-flowered cotton nightgown, and rolled into bed. Bathroom light, on. Kitchen light, on.

  Soon thoughts of an intruder were replaced by thoughts of Chaim, wringing his hands in the Howard Johnson’s. She should have gone over, she thought. At least to reassure him.

  Sleep came quickly.

  The first foreign sound came even more quickly. A scratch from deep inside of Sylvia’s dream.

  She made nothing of it, though it did wake her momentarily. The glowing clock face by her bed read almost 2:00 a.m. She’d been asleep that long?

  She rolled, and pulled in her second pillow. Sleep was one of the most wonderful sensations. Blissful sleep.

  The sound again. A creak this time.

  In the space of two heartbeats, Sylvia’s world changed from sweet dreams of sleep to blood-stopping terror. Her eyes snapped open and she caught her breath.

  She could hear nothing but silence.

  Don’t be ridiculous. You hear a single sound and you jump out of your skin. It’s nothing. Nothing . . .

  “Hello, Sylvia.”

  The words were whispered behind her, low, so low that she wasn’t absolutely sure she’d heard them.

  “If you make even a very small sound, I will bury this knife in your temple. Can you hear me?” Still whispering very low.

  This time she could not mistake the words, try as she did. Someone was behind her. Someone who knew her name. Someone who had a knife.

  Sylvia could not move. Her heart crashed violently. Repeatedly.

  “Are you awake? You’re awake. Your breathing’s changed.”

  She could hear his heavy breathing now.

  “Turn over. Let me see you.”

  She couldn’t. Dear God, help me!

  A cold blade touched her cheek. She clenched her eyes tight and suppressed a whimper.

  “Now, now, no need to ruin things with your fear. I’m not going to kill you. Not necessarily. Unless you make noise; then I will kil
l you.” He paused. “Roll over.”

  Slowly, as if rolling through thick tar, she turned.

  He stood tall over the bed. A black shirt, white face. Built like a bulldog with short cropped hair above grinning face.

  There was a red scarf around his neck and a large silver knife in his gloved hand.

  “Sit up,” he said.

  She sat up without thinking, because her mind was filled with other thoughts. She was going to die. She knew she was going to die because this was the same serial killer who’d killed eight single Jewish women in six nights.

  She was a single Jewish woman and it was the seventh night. She was going to die.

  The man stood looking at her for a long time, pleased with himself— or with what he was doing, or with her, she didn’t know which—but pleased.

  He sat down on a chair he’d brought in from the kitchen. He’d been here that long? Maybe he’d climbed the fire escape and broken the window. But why hadn’t she heard him? Maybe the neighbors had heard him and called the police already.

  “So, I understand that you are a female friend of Stephen’s; is that so?”

  Stephen? This man knew about Stephen?

  “You may speak now,” the killer said. “No yelling or loud noises, but you will answer my questions.”

  “Stephen?” she whispered.

  “Stephen Friedman, yes? The Jew. You know him?” German accent.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. What can you tell me about him?”

  This killer, for whom the whole city was looking, was interested in Stephen? Maybe the man wasn’t going to kill her.

  “Then should I just kill you? If you don’t answer me, I’ll have no choice.”

  “He’s a friend. He’s a Realtor.”

  “Yes, I know. But what drives him? Is he religious?”

  “He’s . . . he’s Jewish.”

  “But is he a man of faith? You know the difference, don’t you? Does he put his hope in powers beyond him, or is he just another self-motivated fool who can’t see beyond the night?”

  The room felt cold. You have to be strong. Think of a way out. Keep him happy. Maybe if you keep him happy, he won’t kill you.

  “He’s not really a man of Jewish faith,” she said.

  “Then maybe Christian, like the old man he lives with? Does he realize that the power of life is in the blood? That’s why the Christians drink the blood of Christ. The power is always in the blood. It’s why I have to cut my victims. It’s why I drink their blood. Do you know this?”

  “No.” She had to keep him talking. He was absorbed by this train of thought, so she had to let him follow it long enough for her to think of a way out of this madness.

  “No, of course not. He isn’t easily discouraged; that’s good.”

  Stephen again.

  “No.”

  How did this man know Stephen? A disgruntled client? A Jew-hater certainly. But why?

  “Do you want to know why I’m doing it? Why I killed all of those Jews?”

  She didn’t, but she couldn’t bring herself to say no.

  “Because it makes me strong. Pure. What most Aryan purists won’t tell you is that the Jews have more power than any other race—that’s a spiritual matter we don’t have time to go into. Hitler’s solution was to eradicate them. Not a bad plan, but shortsighted. Better to take their power.” He sat slightly hunched over. Unbreaking stare.

  “Have you ever tasted another person’s blood, Sylvia?”

  “No.”

  “Its flavor changes with the donor’s mood. Anguish, Sylvia. The greater the anguish, the sweeter the blood.”

  His talk made her sick. She’d recovered enough to speak in a reasonably normal voice.

  “Why are you telling me all of this?”

  “Because it excites me.”

  “Then you’re a sick man,” she said.

  He chuckled. “You remind me of Ruth. She was a strong woman too. So strong, you Jews.” He shuddered. “I’m tempted.”

  Tempted to kill her. Sylvia said nothing.

  “I’m playing him like a mouse, Sylvia. He doesn’t know, of course. He thinks that he’s outwitting me. That’s good; I need him to feel like he’s outwitting me. It raises his hopes. But in the end I will finish what my father started.”

  For a long time he just looked at her. She knew she should be saying something, distracting him, stalling him. Instead she held very still and silently cried for him to leave.

  She would alert the police. Stephen. Chaim. The serial killer was sitting in her room.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  The killer suddenly stood. “Turn around.”

  She instinctively pulled her sheets tight.

  “Face the wall. Now.”

  “You promised—”

  “And if you don’t do exactly as I say, I may change my promise.”

  She faced the wall away from him.

  The sound of cloth flapped behind her. He’d pulled the scarf off of his neck and snapped it open. It whooshed over her head and then smothered her face.

  She wanted to tear it free, but resisted the impulse.

  His gloved hand pulled the cloth down into her mouth. He tied it tight behind her head. She could breathe through her nostrils, but her mouth was effectively gagged.

  “Step off the bed.”

  She followed his order and stood shaking.

  He jerked her arms back and bound them together with string. Then he ripped tape from a roll and strapped her wrists. Her hands felt as if they were in a plaster cast.

  “Lie down on your back.”

  Again she did as he instructed. It took him a minute at most to tie her legs to the bed posts and her neck to the headboard. Another strap of tape went over her mouth.

  He wasn’t taking any chances of her escaping, but that was good, she kept telling herself. That meant he was going to let her live. She lay still and let him finish his work.

  When he was done, he stood beside the bed and looked down at her. The moments stretched in a long vacuous silence. He grinned.

  “Forgive me, but I’ve changed my mind,” he said.

  Then he reached down and flicked his knife across her left wrist. Pain flashed up her arm.

  He’d cut her!

  “Good-bye, Jew.”

  His fist came out of nowhere and crashed into her temple.

  The room went dark.

  32

  Torun

  January 25, 1945

  Night

  EVEN FROM HER SMALL ROOM IN THE BASEMENT OF THE commandant’s quarters, Martha could hear the faint thunder of the Russian artillery to the east. Braun had been beside himself for a week now, taken to muttering from time to time, scurrying from room to room and always to the room down the hall from her own, “the vault,” as he called it, which he kept bolted and locked at all times.

  Her door was closed now, but he’d stomped past not ten minutes ago, and she hadn’t heard him return. He was in his vault. She sat on her bed, staring at the door, willing it to remain closed. Little Esther slept peacefully in a bundle of wool blankets behind her.

  His demands had become more absurd as of late. Wash the floor, wash it again, scrub the walls, scrub them again. Scrub them again. He seemed intent on making her life as difficult as possible. She’d given birth four days after Ruth’s hanging, and it was a boy after all. She named him David. The barracks had been flooded with hope, perhaps even more than after Esther’s birth. See, the commandant wasn’t completely evil. He had allowed Martha and Esther and now little David to live because of Ruth’s sacrifice.

  For five wonderful days, Martha had nursed and coddled the two babies, Esther and David, giving herself completely to the mandate before her. Save the children. At all costs, save the children.

  Then a guard came and told her that she was to leave the barracks and be Braun’s personal servant. She was to bring Esther. And David? No, not the boy. The boy would stay with Rachel. Bring on
ly Esther.

  She’d kissed her son and left in tears, clinging to Esther.

  That night, not knowing what the commandant intended for her, Martha had served dinner to Braun and a woman, Emily, whom she recognized from one of the other barracks. Was he going to hang her in Emily’s stead? What would happen to her precious David?

  The commandant had dismissed Martha at the end of the meal, but she listened with her ear to the door. Emily had squealed with joy, then gasped in horror not two minutes later. What Braun could have said to cause such a reaction, Martha could hardly guess.

  The woman’s body hung from the gates the next morning. Then, with full view of the body out the picture window, Martha served Braun breakfast while he made his intentions for her utterly clear. She was alive only because of Ruth’s sacrifice. She was to care for Esther, but under no circumstances would she be allowed to see her own child, David, even though David would also be allowed to live. He owed this to Ruth.

  It was Braun’s twisted method of punishment. Of extending hope while maintaining the power and will to withdraw it at any moment. Please me here, and I will allow your son to live there.

  She’d served him for five months. Or was it six? And no, she was serving Esther, not the commandant. He beat her with his stick on occasion for not cleaning well enough or quickly enough or burning a batch of buns, but otherwise he never touched her.

  His footsteps clumped back down the hall. Martha instinctively put her hand on the baby and slowed her breathing. How many nights had she imagined sneaking upstairs to Braun’s bedroom and sticking a knife in his throat? If it weren’t for the babies, she might have done it.

  The door swung open and the commandant stood in the door frame, face drawn, collar unbuttoned and skewed. He stared at her like a man who wanted consolation. She turned her face away.

  “We’ve received orders to evacuate the prisoners,” he said.

  She looked back and stood, stunned by the news.

  “Those who are able to march will be gone in the hour. The weak and the sick will stay.”

  Why was he telling her this?

  “I have been ordered to stay,” he said. “You will stay as well.”