by Cathy Ace
Zsófia and the rest of her family all looked at each other with apprehension; I’d removed most of their hopes of someone outside the family being Ilona’s killer.
The young girl grasped at one last straw. “And you’re sure it wasn’t just some stranger who did it?” she asked quietly. I agreed. “So,” her voice was heavy, “if what you just quoted from Valentin’s book is true, then it was Kristóf who killed her. But how did Valentin know about it so he could write about it?”
“I believe your mother can tell you the truth of the matter. Can’t you, Alexa?” I looked at Zsófia’s mother, daring her with my eyes to not answer.
For a few moments I thought she wouldn’t speak, then she snarled, “There is no sense in this. Isn’t it enough your grandmother was murdered? What—do you want a grandfather as a murderer too?”
I reached across the table and gently placed my hand on Zsófia’s arm. “It’s natural for a girl to love her father—as I am sure you loved yours, Zsófia. There are many clues in your uncle’s work that your grandfather favored your mother over her brother—twenty-seven in the five volumes before the final one. Even without them, Valentin’s own words when we dined together told us he must have felt it to be true, even if it wasn’t. Did you feel you were your father’s favorite, Alexa? And was he yours?”
All eyes turned to the woman whose face was grim, her fists now clenched on the table in front of her. “I loved Kristóf and Ilona—they were both my parents.”
“True,” I replied, “but you saw how upset your father was with your mother’s man-chasing antics, didn’t you?”
Alexa glared at the table. “I was too young to really understand, but I knew she did things that annoyed and hurt him. That night—the night she died—she said Kristóf had a man cold and was putting it on, but I’d seen him throwing up, he was so sick. She should have stayed at home to look after him. She was his wife. It was her duty. I know all about wifely duties; I nursed my husband through years of illness, then right through his last months when his body was wasting away. It was awful. But it was my duty. And I loved him, and I loved my princess. Ilona didn’t love Kristóf, she just pretended to. She shouldn’t have left him that night. She shouldn’t have left me. He needed to be looked after. I ran after her and told her so, but she got angry with me. I don’t know what happened exactly, but I do know she was surprised when I hit her. I slapped her with my hand. Across her face all covered with make-up. She wasn’t listening to me—what else could I do? She toppled over. She hit her head, but she didn’t die. She was alive. She was moaning.”
I spoke softly, “Everyone was looking for a killer who could have hit your mother hard on the head with a rock—not for a killer who could push her down a steep path, awash in a rainstorm, where her entire bodyweight was behind her head when it connected with a rock in the ground. The torrent would have swept away the blood overnight, so there’d have been no sign of it the next day. But you couldn’t have moved her body, Alexa, and we know it was moved. That’s what your father did for you, isn’t it? You ran off and left her there, dead, and begged your father to help you.”
Alexa leapt up. “I didn’t kill her. She wasn’t dead. I just slapped her. She just toppled and fell. She wasn’t dead, I tell you. It was an accident.”
Zsófia’s naturally pale complexion took on an almost blue hue as she stared at her mother. “An accident?”
Alexa snapped, “Yes, a slap, and maybe I pushed her. A bit. She didn’t understand why I was so angry. She thought it was funny when I said she should stay home and look after Kristóf. After she’d fallen I ran home to Kristóf and told him what had happened. He said I wasn’t to worry; he would sort it all out. He told me to take a bath and go to bed. I was wet through. I was just a child. I didn’t kill her.”
I shook my head sadly. “But that’s not exactly what happened, is it, Alexa? Lividity takes time to set in. Valentin told me his mother’s face was flushed when he, and you, saw her on the slab. Her body must have lain in one position, face down, for some time before your father moved her. Did you wait before you told him what you’d done? Did you hope she’d die?”
“No! I didn’t wait . . . not on purpose. I . . . I was scared. Dad was sick. I didn’t know what to do.” Alexa sounded like a little girl.
I knew I had to step in before the woman became hysterical. “That’s what you have told yourself all these years?”
“It’s the truth,” she screamed.
“So you believe—what? Your father went out into the storm, found your mother, bashed her on the head until she was dead, then dragged her body to the part of the path where she was eventually found?”
Alexa was biting her bottom lip so hard she drew blood. She nodded stiffly, and looked at her hands as she said, “When Kristóf told the cops none of us had left the house that night I just agreed with him. I had to protect him, or they’d have taken him away. I loved him. He was my father. He never said anything about it to me. Ever. I knew I hadn’t killed her, so it must have been him. I knew he must have hit her again.”
“When you read the final manuscript, you realized something, didn’t you, Alexa? You realized Valentin had seen your father moving your mother’s body that night.”
Tamás let out a little gasp and looked at me astonished. “This was in his book?”
I nodded. “Valentin knew nothing of your involvement, and having seen Kristóf in circumstances he could only have interpreted as meaning his father had killed his mother, his psyche dealt with that information in a way that served to protect him from the terrible truth he thought he knew. The police records tell us he didn’t speak to anyone about the events of that night for some time—not until he’d suffered what sounds to me like some sort of psychotic break. I have a suspicion he put the remembrance of his father’s actions away from his conscious mind, though the effect it had upon him manifested itself in his turning to drugs—to change his sense of reality. It also allowed him to, eventually, weave a complex mythology based upon a central crime in his saga. You told me he began to write after your grandfather’s death, Zsófia. That was his trigger.”
Zsófia was dry-eyed and aghast. “You mean Uncle Valentin knew Grandfather had killed Grandmother, and he wrote all his books as a way to allow his subconscious to work through that knowledge?” I nodded. “The stoning of the queen? The king in the final book telling his son he’d murdered his sister? This is what tells you Grandfather killed Grandmother?”
I knew the hardest part was coming. “It tells us that’s what Valentin believed.” I sighed. “You saw Ilona’s body in the morgue, didn’t you, Alexa?” The woman nodded dumbly. “Why do you think your father made you touch the wound on her shaved head? Surely you saw there was only one wound? Valentin did, and told me so. He believed your father was being cruel when he took you two along and forced you both to examine your mother’s wound. Upon reflection I don’t think your father was being cruel—I believe it was his way of showing you what you’d done, Alexa. He didn’t use words to tell you, he used the evidence of your mother’s body to show you. But you didn’t see it. You didn’t understand what he was showing you. He should have used words.”
All eyes were on Alexa. “I don’t know what you mean.” She was almost whispering.
“There was only one wound. Kristóf didn’t hit her again. Your mother suffered only one blow to the head.”
“You mean it was me who . . . No . . . No, that can’t be right.” She became rigid, and began to shake. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. Her eyes spoke of the horror she was experiencing. Her fingers curled as if she was in physical pain. “No, it’s not true. I didn’t kill her; Kristóf did it. It must have been him. I know it was him. Oh, I’m so sorry, my darling,” she gazed at her daughter with terror, “I never wanted you, my baby Zsófia, to know your grandfather killed your grandmother. It can’t have been me who did it. She was moaning when I left her. How can I have killed her?”
The woman was still den
ying the facts. “The blow your mother suffered when you pushed her led to her death. It was the only injury she sustained.”
Klara stood behind Alexa and held her heaving shoulders. Zsófia sobbed onto her mother’s arm.
Minutes passed before anyone spoke.
Eventually Tamás said, “What will happen to Alexa?”
I looked at Bud, who shifted in his seat. “It’s not for me to say,” he replied softly. “It’s an open case back in Canada. When the authorities there hear about this they’ll . . .”
“What is the point of them doing anything?” said Klara, her deep voice heavy with the tears she was struggling to hold back. “My sister-in-law died. It is a family tragedy of long ago. Isn’t it time for the old crimes, from the old days, to be put aside?”
Bud’s furrowed brow told me he was grappling with his emotions. “I’m no longer an officer of the law, but I have a duty . . .”
“If we begged you to say nothing, what would your answer be?” said Tamás, standing behind Alexa and taking his wife’s hand in his. “This family has suffered so much. We have many wounds to heal. How would it serve justice to bring this to the attention of the authorities? Look at Alexa. See how she is suffering. She will carry this guilt with her forever. She was a child back then. It was an accident. Justice is more than punishment, it is more than retribution; it is a moral decision, not a social imperative. Her suffering is justice. Can you not see that?”
“Please don’t do anything that means my mama will be sent to prison, Bud,” said Zsófia though her tears. “Can’t you see she’s already there? Mama has been so strong for so long, and always for other people. She looked after Kristóf and Valentin, then she looked after my father, then cared for Valentin when he was sick—always keeping her secret for what she thought was the sake of others. Tamás is right. It would serve no purpose to punish her, to remove her from society. You’d only be punishing us. We didn’t do anything wrong.”
John didn’t make eye contact with Bud. My husband stood. “It’s not my decision. It is a case that must be weighed by a jury. There are mitigating circumstances, I can see that, but Alexa caused her mother’s death. That cannot go unanswered. I have upheld the law my entire life. I have also put wheels in motion that have drawn attention to this case, which means I cannot stand down at this point, even if I wanted to.”
I looked at the man I loved, and knew I would never forgive myself if I stood against him on this matter. “I agree with my husband. Facts have come to light that must be passed on to the proper authorities. However, Bud, I would suggest you discuss these findings with that one ‘special’ person in Canada who has already approached you about Ilona’s death. Maybe it should be that person who decides how to proceed.”
Bud’s brow smoothed. “You’re right, Cait.” Looking at Alexa’s upturned, mournful face he continued, “I must fulfill my professional obligation, but I will say that there might not be the political will to pursue the case.”
“Politics might help our family, for once,” said Klara heavily.
“It might,” I agreed. Bud sat down again, and I could tell he felt relieved he could reasonably pass the decision-making up the chain of command.
Zsófia hugged her mother, whose head was cradled in her arms on the dining table. “Mama, please, look at me?” Her mother raised her head a little. “We can talk about this. We are family. Tamás, Klara, and I can help you. And we can find a professional who will allow you to work out what this means for you. It’s a tragedy that Uncle Valentin took his own life not knowing who he really was, and believing the man he thought was his father killed the woman he thought was his mother. But maybe it’s better this way. He was able to love you as his sister all these years, and you only have to read his books to know how important that relationship was to him. You must have seen how he wrote kindly about sisters in his books?”
Alexa shook her head. “I didn’t see that. I didn’t understand what any of his words meant. Ever. I’ve been an incredibly stupid woman. I’m a killer, and I didn’t even know it. I cannot imagine how just talking to someone can ever help me come to terms with that fact.”
“Words have great power,” I said, “especially when they come from the heart. They can wound, but they can also help the healing to begin. I think Zsófia’s idea of finding a professional with whom you can speak, in complete confidence and with absolute openness, is going to be critical for you.”
“So says the psychologist, and I agree with her,” said Bud.
Final Words
SITTING IN MY WHEELCHAIR IN the exclusive lounge at Budapest Airport the next day—John had arranged for us to fly business class, so we were being treated like royalty—I enjoyed a last cup of Turkish coffee with Bud. He’d taken to it as much as I had, which surprised me.
“After finding out they charged so much for my time here in Hungary, and knowing they don’t really want me back, I’m not looking forward to having that meeting with my head of department at the UVan campus in a couple of weeks,” I said.
“Tell them to stuff their job,” was Bud’s very un-Bud-like response.
“Pardon?”
“Cait, my love—you haven’t been happy there for months. I hate seeing you so caught up in politics that you can hardly sleep at night. Walk away. Have a fresh start.”
“Walk away? Hardy-har-har, Bud.” I rolled my wheels a couple of inches closer to his toes.
“Too soon?” Bud winked. “Come on, you know you can walk a little already, and it’s just a matter of time and rehab before you’re able to get about like you always did. We both know you were very fortunate, Cait, so let’s try to look on the bright side, eh?”
I grappled with my emotions for a moment then set my jaw. “I know you’re right. It’ll be hard work, but I know I’ll make a full recovery. I’m much more fortunate than many in that respect.”
“At least take a leave of absence for a year? The job will be there for you. They can’t get rid of you now you’re like this.”
I rolled my eyes. “Full of wit and pith today, aren’t you? This isn’t just a job we’re talking about, it’s my career, Bud. I can’t just ‘walk away.’ What’s an academic without an academic post? Nothing. This is my life.”
Bud leaned forward and held my hand. “No, it’s not, Cait. It’s your career, yes, but it’s not your life. Life should be about more than just a career. I’ve struggled with that since I retired, but now I’m coming to terms with it. And I can help you do the same. If you’re going to get paid for reproducing what you read of Valentin’s work, you’ll have an income that would allow you to not live off me—which I know is important to you.”
I shrugged, rather halfheartedly. “You’re right about me wanting to contribute to our financial wellbeing, but I also feel I have something to contribute to the body of knowledge and understanding of criminal psychology. There’s so much I could do.”
“So do it. Get the book written up for Zsófia, then work on your own to connect with others in your field who think like you do. You don’t mean to tell me, in this day and age, that there’s no other way you can put forward your hypotheses than with the backing of a university?”
“I wouldn’t be able to publish papers.”
“But you could offer your services to law enforcement services, right? I know John’s spoken to you in the past about working with him.”
“Oh no, Bud, I’m not going to get dragged into the twilight world of international backdoor information gathering and profiling. It’s just not me.”
“You consulted for me, you could consult for others. If you weren’t teaching at UVan you’d have the time. You’ve been moaning for at least a year about how the low-level courses they insist you deliver mean you’re grading sub-standard reports from students who are forced to take your classes, rather than working the way you’d prefer, with operational professionals. Maybe now’s the time to do it.”
“Well, it’s rehab and the book first, I know that.
” I smiled at my husband. “It’ll be good to work with Zsófia. Maybe we can help each other through our tough times.”
Bud’s face told me he was feeling uncomfortable before his words did. “About Zsófia. Now that I’ve met her I see she’s a bright girl, and, yes, vulnerable with it. But what was it about her that made you take all this on in the first place? Was it—I know this is something you don’t ever really talk about—but was it because of that business at the start of your relationship with Angus?”
I sagged. “You mean my miscarriage?” Bud nodded. I sighed. “I don’t talk about that often because it doesn’t frequently come to mind. I’d only found out about being pregnant, and told Angus, the day before I lost it. I know a miscarriage can be hugely traumatic for many people, and I’d never want to underestimate the impact it can have upon some people’s lives. But for me? Physiologically, it was almost as though nothing had happened. Psychologically, the main effect it had upon me was that Angus used it against me in every way he could, for years. But, honestly, I’m not lying at all when I tell you from my heart that I don’t believe everything is meant for everyone, Bud; I really don’t believe I was cut out to be a mother. I’ll grant you, when I met Zsófia, who’s about the age that child would have been now, and, yes, a bit like me when I was her age—though I was spared all the family drama, I’m pleased to say—something inside me kicked in and I felt a twinge of . . . I don’t know what to call it. Sorry, I just don’t have the words.” I gazed into my husband’s eyes. “She’s not a surrogate. I’m not sad I’m not a mother. I’m going to be just fine working with her. I have no hidden agenda. There’s no big child-shaped hole in my life. Okay?”
Bud squeezed my hand. “Okay. So long as you’re sure.”
