“Let’s get some coffee.”
“Does that mean you’re considering Burbank’s offer?”
“Perhaps.”
Two blocks down the street, they found a coffee shop, cozy and quaint, and when the caffeine had for the most part been quaffed and all that remained of the scones and muffins were a few crumbs that had tumbled onto the table, Munroe shifted the conversation back to the offer Burbank had made. “I’m going to take the job,” she said. “If Burbank will agree to several concessions.”
Breeden put down her mug and pulled a handheld from her purse.
“I want the two-point-five million up front,” Munroe said, “plus expenses.” She paused for a moment and tapped her fingers on the table in a rhythmic pattern that resembled Morse code. “If I can deliver hard evidence on the facts surrounding his daughter’s disappearance,” she continued, “then I want an additional two-point-five upon delivery, and I want to work alone—no tagalongs. I may have a few more stipulations, but the tagalong is the only one he’s going to balk at. Wait at least seventy hours before you submit the terms—I want to buy time to change my mind.”
Breeden nodded and jotted notes.
“I also want the names and numbers of every person involved in any investigation that has ever been done into Emily’s disappearance. I have questions that weren’t answered by the information Burbank sent you.”
Breeden finished tapping on the handheld, tilted her head, and whispered, “I would really love to know what made you decide to take the assignment.”
“Because I think I can get further than they have.”
“And the money’s good.”
Munroe smiled. “A year of my life is a year I’ll never get back. But there was something in the file that needled me, something I couldn’t put my finger on until the ride down. Every time people have gone in search of Emily, they’ve always started where she disappeared. I think the answer lies in Europe.”
“With the guy—oh, what’s his name? The boy that’s in the institution?”
“Yes, with him. He was there. He should know what happened.”
“But people have tried talking with him. He makes no sense.”
Munroe nodded slowly. “I realize that.” She drew a long sip from a glass of water. “Perhaps they weren’t speaking his language.”
THE RETURN TO Dallas brought Munroe to the hotel by midafternoon, and Noah’s business card, still on the desk where he’d left it, was the first thing she saw as she entered the room. She dropped the backpack and helmet on the bed and moved to the card, picked it up, and flicked it against her hand. His name and business address stared out at her. The clock by the bed read four-thirty—still time to see him before his flight.
In the silence of the room, the pressure in her chest began to build. The voices were there, low and quiet but still with her.
… Why do the heathen rage …
She ran her fingers over the top of the card, the raised ink, braille through her fingertips, translated memories of his face.
… The kings of the earth set themselves and the rulers take council …
She let the card fall into the garbage can.
Time to go.
She gathered her few belongings and tossed them into the backpack; she would drop them off with Logan on her way out of town. She’d contact Breeden before the self-imposed deadline expired, then ride until exhausted and find someplace to collapse for the night. On impulse she headed for Colorado Springs, cutting across the vast, cold emptiness of North Texas.
It was on the outskirts of Amarillo, shortly before midnight, that she stopped for fuel. The station was poorly lit, and only after getting off the bike and removing the helmet did she see the small group of young men in the shadows. They sat on the tailgate of an old Ford pickup. The smell of cigarettes wafted in her direction, and she could hear in their voices the bravado that comes when alcohol is mixed with youthful inexperience. She ignored them and unscrewed the cap on the fuel tank.
When she removed her wallet, the conversation that carried on the air shifted in tone. She kept her back to the truck and swiped the credit card. Voices hushed. The tailgate creaked. She closed her eyes and relaxed, ready for what she sensed was coming. Adrenaline flowed, and euphoria followed. Irregular footsteps. Metal on metal. A hand reached for her shoulder, and with celerity she grabbed the owner’s wrist and forced his arm backward until she felt the snap, and in that same second slammed a fist into his abdomen. When he doubled over, she picked up his knife from the ground.
“That was a warning,” she said, and fought the urge to pummel him. He was eighteen, maybe nineteen, his face tinged with the rosy pink flush of youth and alcohol, his chin sporting patches of stubble. She ignored the feel of the knife in her hand as it screamed to be used, pulled him up by the hair, and shoved him in the direction of the others who had begun to rise off the back of the tailgate. She saw the faint glimmer of a gun and instinctively handled the knife, measuring the weight and balance of it.
“If any of you want a piece of me, you’re welcome to it,” she said. “I could use a good fight right now. And you better be a hell of a shot, because I will slice you to pieces before you empty the chamber.”
She saw their uncertainty and ignored the swearing and threats; underneath the noise she could hear fear and knew that the fight was already over. She turned her back to them and continued the process of fueling the motorcycle.
Two hours north she found a cheap motel, where she slept for a few hours before voices from the past once again called through slumber and brought her awake.
Three days out of Dallas, Munroe contacted Breeden to confirm that she would take the assignment and faxed the last of the stipulations. Two days later, while passing through Sacramento, the reply arrived on her voice mail. By arrangement Breeden faxed the contract to the nearest UPS store. The document was less than four pages, and although Breeden would already have gone over the details, studying the fine print was a routine that Munroe would not violate. Burbank had accepted all her stipulations save one: He would not vacillate on his right to send a companion on the assignment if he felt it necessary.
For five million she could put up with the possibility of being babysat; worst case, she’d conveniently lose the sitter. She faxed the signed copy to Burbank’s office and overnighted the original to Breeden.
Within minutes of her having done so, the driving edge of anger and anxiety ebbed, and calm overtook her. She checked into a motel and slept for fifteen hours.
chapter 4
Frankfurt, Germany
Hands deep in her coat pockets, Munroe strode toward Zeil, Frankfurt’s downtown walking street, and toward the steps that led to the underground rails. It was November cold, and the streets were bare and windblown. Autumn leaves danced on the gusts, and the aromas of coffee from the cafés and chestnuts roasting at open-air stalls lifted on the breeze, exciting the senses.
She stood at the subway entrance and, a predator catching the first whiff of prey, filled her lungs with the crisp taste of winter.
After nearly a month of background preparation, she was ready to pick up the scent of a trail that had vanished and, if things went according to plan, to take the investigation where others before her had searched and failed.
She’d arrived in Frankfurt the day before yesterday. Her hotel was near the city center, with a view of the Main and the riverboats that moved along its course, a short walk from the trains that ran underground and the best shopping in the city that stood above them.
She took the train to Oberursel, a midsize town on the northern edge of Frankfurt, and from there a taxi to Klinik Hohe Mark. St. Mark’s Clinic: home for the mentally unwell and, for the past three years, Kristof Berger’s permanent residence.
The institution was a sprawling estate of functional buildings spread across acres of what would have been greenery if the weather had been warmer. She had called ahead for visiting hours, and when she stepped from the ta
xi, church bells in a cobblestoned town square somewhere in the distance confirmed that it was time.
Kristof sat in a warm, sun-drenched room where pastel yellow curtains framed the windows and softened the winter light. He stared with tilted head into nothingness, his hands in his lap and his feet together. At the opposite end of the room, the sounds of daytime television filled the silence, and although there were other patients in the room, Munroe did not notice them, so focused was she on Kristof.
He was different from the old photos in the reports, and as she saw the blankness of his face, her immediate thought was of how shameful it was that such a beautiful person had gone to waste. She wondered now, for the first time thinking beyond collecting on the contract, what had brought him to such a state.
Munroe wore a blond wig and brown contact lenses. They were the only items that bore resemblance to Emily Burbank, but she hoped they were enough to jog memories—if Kristof still had them. She sat in the chair next to him, and with her hand on his arm she said his name. He gave no response.
Unsure if he had registered her presence, she knelt down in front of him, leaning in so that her face was near his line of sight. She placed one hand gently under his chin and drew it up so that he looked at her. His eyes focused, and she smiled. He lifted his head on his own, and she withdrew her hand, remaining in front of him on the floor.
Munroe’s voice was hushed and low. “Ich will begreifen was passiert ist, damit ich Dir helfen kann. Where did it happen, Kristof? What do you remember?”
He sighed and closed his eyes. His head drifted to the side, and his face returned to the emptiness he’d worn when she first saw him.
She stayed with him for nearly four hours. She spoke softly, explained her desire to locate Emily, and watched his face for clues that would allow her inside his mind. There were moments when he stirred from his torpor and looked her way. Once he smiled, but in all the time they were together, he didn’t speak.
The afternoon faded, and Monroe left the institution, arriving over an hour later in Langen, a town on the southern edge of Frankfurt. On the cobblestoned pavement outside the station that split the city in two, she studied the oversize map. Dusk was coming, and with the last of the sun the temperature would dip further. She turned up the collar of her coat. It would be quick, a pass by the house to get a feel for what she would encounter when she returned to pay a visit to Kristof’s mother.
A three-minute walk from the station, Frau Berger’s house stood on a quiet and tidy street. Hers was a two-story home, small and narrow, with red clay roof tiles like the houses around it, though unlike the others it was in disrepair. The dark green paint on the shutters was cracked and peeling, and plaster from parts of the outside wall had crumbled, leaving the blocks underneath it exposed. The eaves were lopsided, drooping precariously at the back corner. Munroe’s eyes were drawn to the windowsills, where on each one stood plants that flourished, and she saw that the six feet between the front door and the sidewalk was neatly lined and hedged with what would be a beautiful garden in the spring. In the fading light of the evening, the house looked forlorn and lonely.
Munroe returned to the station and paced for warmth against the cold while waiting for the train that would take her back into Frankfurt. At the far end of the platform, Frau Berger’s house was visible, and on the third trip to the end Munroe spotted lights in the house and noted the time.
The following day she returned to visit Kristof and found him in the same chair wearing the same expression. When she approached, he lifted his head and smiled. She sat next to him, placed her hand on his arm, said nothing, and allowed the hours to pass in silence.
And then Kristof spoke, his voice thick and sticky, the words uneven. “We went where the money was buried,” he said. “We ran together, and she was gone, where the money was.”
Munroe waited, let the silence swallow them, and then in a whisper said, “Can you tell me where?”
“She was gone,” he said. “She was gone, and it was red, and we never saw the place of the money.”
Twice more he spoke, not answering her questions but repeating the same words. Munroe stayed with him for another hour and then left for Langen. On the train she reviewed the transcripts of Kristof’s previous conversations. They were there, identical words: where the money was buried. She closed her eyes. The warmth and the rhythm of the train and the clack of the wheels lulled her to the edge of sleep. There was meaning in his words—something.
She found a florist on Langen’s Hauptstrasse and purchased one of the more expensive items in the shop. It would, she hoped, be a welcome addition to the collection Frau Berger displayed on her windowsills and as such provide an opening into the woman’s home. Munroe returned to the station and waited in the cold on the platform until shortly after dusk, when the lights in the house went on.
At Munroe’s knock Frau Berger opened the door and wiped a hand on a spotless apron. Munroe took a step forward. “Guten Abend, Frau Berger, ich bin die Mikaela—I’m a friend of Kristof,” she said. “I’ve been abroad and only recently learned what happened. I’m so sorry.” She held out the living floral arrangement. “I wanted to bring you something.”
There was a moment of uneasy silence, and then Frau Berger took the arrangement. “Thank you,” she said quietly, standing in the doorway, moving neither to close the door nor to invite Munroe to stay.
Munroe stepped back a pace. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” she said, and then turned to go.
“Wait …” The woman’s voice was soft, distant. “Won’t you come in for a few minutes? Perhaps drink something warm?”
Munroe paused, scratched her neck as if deciding, and then nodded and followed the woman into the house. Frau Berger showed her to a small sitting room in the front and then retreated farther into the downstairs area.
While Munroe sat, she surveyed the room and hallway. The Burbank report was accurate in describing the poor condition of the house, but it neglected the invisible obvious. The interior was worn yet spotlessly clean and well cared for. Curtains, sun-bleached and threadbare, were crisp and fresh, the windows were without a smudge, and there was no trace of dust on any of the old pieces that decorated the modest room. The sofa had been recently plumped. A small glass showcase displayed an antique collection of miniature ceramic pieces, and adorning the walls were photographs of Kristof from his earliest years. The woman was meticulous, proud, self-sufficient. The offer of money would have insulted her.
The fragrance of fresh coffee announced Frau Berger’s return.
The conversation was light. Talk was of the weather and the differences between home and abroad. Munroe asked questions about Kristof as a child, and the woman spoke of him in the descriptive and colorful way that only an adoring mother could.
“It must have been a very big shock to you,” Munroe said, “for Kristof to withdraw the way he did. Do you suppose something happened to him in Africa?”
“I don’t know,” the mother replied. She grew quiet. “I believe so. He would wake in the night screaming. That’s why he originally went to see the doctors, you know, to calm the nightmares.”
“I didn’t know that,” Munroe said. “Nobody says why he is away, only that it happened after he made a trip to Africa. They say things happened to him there that changed him.”
A tear formed in the mother’s eye. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s possible. He never spoke to me of it.” She drew the back of a finger under her eyes. Munroe handed her a tissue. “There were some men who came to visit me, who offered me money if I would tell them where Kristof went. They were looking for a girl, maybe his girlfriend.”
“Did they find the girl?” Munroe asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I didn’t want their money, and I sent them away. But there was nothing I could tell them anyhow. I don’t know about any girl.” Frau Berger’s tears rolled steadily. “Sometimes I wonder,” the woman said, “if I knew what happened, would it make
it easier for me to bear it?”
Munroe moved from her seat to the edge of the sofa where Frau Berger sat. She placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Perhaps it would,” she said. “I also want to know what happened. I want to help Kristof.” Munroe was silent for a moment and then asked, “Are there no clues in the items Kristof brought back with him from Africa?”
The woman shook her head. “He brought nothing back. Not even clothes. Everything he had, I put into an envelope. They were from a secret belt, a pocket that goes under the pants. It was all he had.”
“May I look?” Munroe asked.
Frau Berger nodded and rose. She motioned for Munroe to follow, then led her up the narrow staircase and to a room on the right. Unlike the rest of the house, the room was dusty, its air stale. Items were strewn across the floor and the bed was barely made, as if his mother had chosen to leave it exactly the way Kristof had on the day he left home for good. Perhaps in some hidden recess of the woman’s mind she believed that he would return to it.
From a drawer inside a small wardrobe, Frau Berger pulled out a manila envelope and handed it to Munroe. “Everything he had with him is in here.”
The two women sat, Frau Berger on the edge of the bed and Munroe cross-legged on the floor, where she spread out the contents of the envelope in front of her: a passport, two airplane tickets, a yellow vaccination card, two pills remaining from some form of medication, and a couple pieces of paper on which the ink had bled to indecipherability.
Munroe stared at the items, astounded by the wealth of viable information. At this rate the job would be over in a month.
She picked up the airplane tickets. The first was an unused South African Airways ticket from Johannesburg to Frankfurt with the same date and codes for the flight Emily was supposed to have taken. The second was undoubtedly the one Kristof had returned to Europe on, an Air France flight from Libreville to Paris. The ticket had been issued by a local travel agent in Gabon, of that Munroe was sure. From the IATA information, she could track down the originating travel agency if necessary.
The Informationist: A Thriller Page 5
