Cut: The international bestselling serial killer thriller

by Marc Raabe

  She turns around, scurries back to the two other doors and pushes on the left. A cell like her own, but larger and more comfortable. Blankets, pillows, a scuffed light-brown leather sofa, well-read books, an unmade bed, a sink and toilet, crude drawings of flowers on the walls, no windows, no exit. A cellar.

  Yvette hadn’t lied. Val had been holding her prisoner, too.

  She turns around and pushes on the other door. The light is also on in here. Again, a cell; again, no exit. To the right, a simple kitchenette, a cabinet with medical products and drugs. On the left, a clothes dryer and an almost three-metre wide coat rail on wheels. About twenty strikingly elegant dresses are hanging from the crossbar, some of which are covered in plastic. All the way in front is something separate – a dress with a sweeping white-satin skirt, embroidered with hundreds of glittering roses. The front of the dress is almost as short as a mini skirt, but the back is long and billowy like a rococo gown. The inner lining of the skirt has a royal blue floral pattern. Liz can’t help but reach out and touch the shimmering fabric. It’s soft as silk, but also solid and bulky.

  I’ve chosen a dress for you, for the thirteenth. You will look like a queen.

  A shudder runs through Liz’s body. She pulls her hand back, as if she’s been burned.

  Nonetheless, she can’t take her eyes off of the luxurious dress. Such unique pieces often cost more than a hundred thousand euro and hang either on the thin shoulders of haute-couture models or in the walk-in wardrobes of the super-rich. With a jolt, she stares at the flowing blue floral pattern. Where the hell did he get dresses like these?

  There is suddenly a noise out in the corridor. It sounds like the echo of a door being opened in the distance.

  Val!

  Liz spins around, thoughts running through her head in quick succession. Steps. She hears steps rushing down a staircase.

  She looks up at the ceiling, the light bulb. She’s under the light within a fraction of a second, reaching her arms out, stretching each finger. The heat burns her skin as she turns the bulb to the left. The light flickers and goes out. Only, it’s too late for the light in the hall.

  She can hear the metallic rattling of a key being put into a lock from outside. She can feel the blood pumping though her ears, her heart hammering against her ribs. The steps are getting closer. Liz has no choice. This is her only hiding place. She dives between the haute couture dresses on the clothes rail and squeezes all the way back against the cold brickwork. She wishes she could scratch a hole in the wall with her nails. She anxiously peers out between the expensive fabrics at the open door.

  Please don’t let him come in here.

  Suddenly, a light goes on, a nerve-racking flicker for a fraction of a second.

  Oh no! The bulb, she didn’t unscrew the bulb far enough!

  There is a growing shadow on the floor of the corridor. Val’s figure appears in the doorway in the exact moment that the light bulb flickers again.

  Val stops.

  A smile flits across his tense face. ‘Have I underestimated you, little Lizzy? Are you this strong?’ he whispers.

  Liz’s knees go weak. Through the narrow gap, she can see him approaching. Unfaltering. Val’s face flashes in rhythm with the flickering light.

  ‘What were you thinking, Liz? That you could run away? Just like that? A small, weakened, naked woman in the middle of the mountains at these temperatures?’

  Mountains. We’re in the mountains! Liz crouches down, all of her muscles tense up.

  ‘How far do you think you’ll get, Liz, before I catch you? A hundred metres? Two hundred metres?’

  The light crackles. Val passes under it and his face is suddenly pitch black; his silhouette is backlit, like an ominous aura.

  ‘Shall we try it? I could let you go. But you’ll have to run far, Liz, very far,’ he says. His voice cracks with excitement to match the flickering light, as if an electric current were flowing through his body. His face grows to gigantic proportions, blocking the door, the bright bit of the corridor. Where there was just an exit is now only him. Gigantic. Black. Dominating everything.

  ‘It would all be in vain,’ Val whispers. ‘And I don’t want you to hurt yourself. I need you unscathed. Spotless.’

  Liz desperately tightens her muscles until they ache. The light blinks tauntingly.

  ‘Come out, little Lizzy. Come out, come out, wherever you are.’ He is very close, towering in front of the dress rail.

  Now!

  Light as a feather, she hurries forward, pushing the crossbar of the rack from below. She wants to ram him under the chin, but the dresses weigh as much as a bookcase. The momentum pulls her down with the rack and the dresses as they tip onto Val. He flails his arms around, but he can’t keep his balance and falls, his head hitting the concrete floor. Liz lands face down beside him. The dresses cushion her fall.

  Suddenly, there is silence.

  He’s unconscious! she thinks and can hardly contain her excitement.

  The bulb goes on again like lightning. Liz gropes around until she feels his body. The key! The key must be somewhere! Her fingers run across Val’s trousers, his pockets.

  There.

  Her hand digs into his left trouser pocket. She grabs the key, which is caught in the pocket lining and touches his penis in the process.

  Still, she manages to pull the key out. She struggles to her feet from amongst the tangled mountain of clothes. The light from the hall shines through the open door. She looks down at herself, at her thin hospital gown.

  Val groans softly and deeply.

  As if the room were on fire, Liz reaches into the pile of dresses, pulls one out and rushes to the door and down the hall. With her fingers shaking, she tries to put the key in the keyhole, but it slips and falls to the ground with a rattle.

  Get it together.

  She picks it up and tries again. Metal scratching against metal. The keyhole might as well be the eye of a needle.

  Come on!

  She tries with both hands, so she can control the shaking. Finally, she manages it.

  The lock turns, the gate screeches open.

  She hears a groan behind her, louder than before.

  She pulls the key back out of the lock. The goddamn thing is refusing, clinging to its position. She finally slips through the door and pushes it shut from the other side.

  Now lock it!

  She tries again with the key. Her fingers shake uncontrollably. Violently.

  Please!

  She tries again with both hands. It’s futile. Val’s groans flow down the hall towards her.

  Panicked, she leaves the key in the lock, grabs the dress and staggers onwards along the hall and around the corner. Her feet feel stairs. She feels for a handrail and climbs the steps, faster and faster – just get out of this hell.

  The stairs end in the middle of a large room. The daylight burns her eyes like poison. Through the glare, she can make out a garden beyond. She manages to open the glass door and rush out.

  The fresh air is almost shocking. She voraciously sucks it into her lungs. It smells of earth, resin and grass. She squints, trying to orientate herself. On her right is a garage door. She rattles it by the handle, but it’s locked. There must be a car inside and there is surely a key in the house. But she can’t go back. Not into this house.

  In a daze, she hurries through a black wrought-iron gate in a stone wall. The sky is so vast she feels dizzy. The mountains around her are contoured so that it looks like they are suspended in the sky with their snow-capped ridges and peaks. Her legs remember the training. Always one step after another, faster and faster down the road.

  She turns around, looks at the stone wall and the house behind it – his house, a cold dirty bungalow, alone, practically rammed into the mountain. The road ends at the entrance to his house, the double doors like a hungry mouth.

  But you’ll have to run far, Liz, very far.

  Oh, I can run, you bastard!

  The road in f
ront of her winds through the mountains with woods on either side of the asphalt. Liz runs in the shelter of the trees, out of breath, always far enough from the road, but also always parallel to it. Several times, she bends around the steep slopes, branches hit her face and body, her bare feet in agony on the stony ground. Eventually, the freezing air begins to get to her. Birds squawk at her from the trees above. She stops, tears away the plastic, peels out the dress – and groans.

  Haute couture.

  There must be a scornful little devil out to get her somewhere.

  Still, she thinks resolutely, it’s better than nothing.

  The dress is black and she wishes the sun would set, even though she knows that the day has only just begun.

  Chapter 40

  Berlin – 25 September, 6.42 p.m.

  Gabriel closed his eyes, as if it could save him from the pain, as if he could just forget all of this insanity again.

  Luke! Hey, Luke . . .

  Gabriel doesn’t react. Everything feels sore and numb.

  And? Has getting back down into that damned cellar helped you?

  Helped? It echoes in his head, although he can’t find a suitable answer.

  You see? We’re a wreck because of you. And for what?

  Silence.

  Then, very quietly, the thought: maybe I should get rid of you . . .

  Get rid of me? You don’t really mean that.

  And if I do?

  Luke! We . . . we’ve always got along well . . . you know how many times I’ve saved you?

  Maybe. Yes.

  Maybe?

  I don’t know whether you’ve actually saved me.

  What?

  Maybe I would’ve been better off without you.

  Goddamn it, you ungrateful arsehole. Who made sure you pulled yourself together? That you’re not just blubbering all over the place? Who made sure you were strong? Who the hell made sure that the others didn’t break you?

  I know. Yes.

  And still, you prefer HER?

  It’s not about that at all.

  That’s exactly what it’s about. Ever since she came around, you’ve been . . . unpredictable. A danger to yourself . . .

  I’m not sure.

  You can still end it. Any time. You just have to decide to.

  That’s what you want? That I decide? That I turn against Liz? Do you understand what you’re asking? Gabriel whispers. Listen! I killed my father! Me! I don’t know why, I can’t remember any more, but I know it was me. And now you want me to leave Liz to die? Her, of all people?

  It will set you free.

  Free?

  That’s what you’ve been longing for.

  For freedom? You’ve been longing for freedom. I want . . . I don’t know . . . salvation.

  Salvation? My god, what kind of pathetic shit is that! There is no salvation. Salvation is jumping from a skyscraper. Freedom is the only thing.

  Maybe I really am better off without you.

  You should get some sleep.

  I can’t seep, damn it! Can you get that through your thick skull?

  Our skull, Luke. Our skull! Incidentally, you’ve forgotten about the electrodes, Luke. The light barrier . . .

  Gabriel opens his eyes. The electrodes, shit.

  His fingers are trembling as he gropes around on the floor beside the bed. The dust swirls through the beam of light sneaking in between the closed curtains of his room at Caesar’s. It shines onto his bed, casting a spotlight on the collection of loose papers from his medical records.

  Somewhere between the pages, he finds the thin cable, places the electrodes on his forearm and closes his eyes again. From behind his eyelids, all he can see is a red glow – like the inside of a stomach. Suddenly, he is back in the cellar at Conradshöhe, sitting frozen in front of his own file. At some point, he had lost consciousness down there. When he came to, it was already late afternoon. The dog bite in his arm was burning and he felt feverish.

  Normally, he would have waited for nightfall to break out of the psychiatric clinic in the cover of darkness. But there was no normal any more. Normal was over, for good.

  He crept out of the archive room and was lucky to find an old grey uniform in an adjacent room, which he threw on immediately. Then he left the cellar the same way he got in: through the service entrance.

  About an hour later, he was sitting in his doctor’s waiting room. The arm was now very swollen, possibly infected from the bite. The doctor wanted to give him a rabies injection, but Gabriel refused. Instead, he requested antibiotics, had the wound cleaned and bandaged and flat out rejected being transferred to the hospital.

  When he staggered out of the practice, exhaustion hit him like a freight train. He got the chills. His teeth chattering, he hailed a taxi, had it drop him off near Caesar’s – just not up to the front door – and then dragged himself the rest of the way on foot.

  In his room, he just fell into bed, peeled off the tattered jacket, shoved the mobile in his trouser pocket – just in case Val called again – and threw himself back on the mattress, feeling like his childhood was a malignant tumour that had metastasised and revealed its ugliest, truest form.

  Although he was certain that he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep, he dozed off. Memories drift around, and he runs back and forth between them, confused, like the silver ball in a pinball machine.

  The blood. David, as small as a doll, but somehow heavy as a tank. He had to pull him away, away from the fire, away from the dead eyes that cut through him.

  The cellar, the lab. An open door. His father shouting at him not to go down. But he couldn’t help it. He felt something sticky between his toes, it smelled like chemicals. He walked through a forest of photos. Filmstrips hung from the ceiling, wriggling towards him like snakes. One of them coiled around his neck and choked him, his forearm burned like fire . . .

  Like electricity . . .

  He opens his eyes and the dream ends abruptly.

  The electrodes on his arm have been activated. The infrared barrier. Someone is standing in front of his door.

  Alert, Gabriel jumps up and presses his back against the wall between the door and the bed. He waits, his eyes fixed on the worn door handle.

  Nothing. No movement. His heart is pounding.

  Breathe! Be calm!

  The setting sun behind the thick curtains bathes everything in dirty twilight.

  At the doorway, there is a soft scraping at exactly the height of the lock. Someone is pushing a plastic card between the catch and the doorframe. Gabriel’s muscles tighten. With a metallic click, the lock gives way and the door swings open, crashing against the wall beside the washbasin. A hulking figure storms into the room with a compact black pistol at the ready.

  Gabriel’s reactions are like a machine. His right arm speeds forward like the blade of a flick knife, the edge of his hand shoots to the side of the intruder’s thick neck. The man groans, falls into the room and the gun slips away from him.

  Two more men in black leather jackets follow behind him. Gabriel gives the first one a hard kick with his right foot. He stumbles back out into the hall against the second man. From the corner of his eye, Gabriel sees the hulking one reach for his gun on the floor.

  Gabriel slams the door against the faces of the other two. He hears a thud and a cry in pain. Gabriel spins around and then strikes the hulk with another blow to the neck. The man’s fingers go limp just a few centimetres away from the pistol. The gun, a Russian Baghira MR 444 made of carbon fibre, lies on the floor. Gabriel hears the two men outside fumbling with the door again. His thoughts are racing like a train so that everything from his side of it looks blurred.

  Take the fucking gun, damn it.

  No, no, no.

  Fucking idiot, you and your hesitation.

  No gun.

  What do you think they’ll do to us?

  Gabriel doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know who ‘they’ are. He doesn’t kno
w what ‘they’ want. And he doesn’t have any idea what he should do. He is stuck between the tracks – one step and the train will run him over.

  And Liz? What about her? If you won’t help yourself, then at least help her. You can’t stop thinking about her. And now you’re going to give up? Because of your idiotic fear of guns?

  Suddenly, the train is gone, it has raced past and he is pulled onto the tracks in its wake.

  His fingers dig into the gun’s grip. It’s light and compact, but still feels heavy in his hand. The trigger burns white hot against his right index finger. He is trembling; nonetheless, he throws open the door, Baghira at the ready. Surprised, the two men stare back at him with their guns drawn and pointed directly at him. One of them is holding his free hand in front of his nose, which is clearly broken. Blood seeps between his fingers and his wide-set eyes glisten with rage. Gabriel knows him from Python. His name is Koslowski, he’s Polish.

  ‘What do you want?’ Gabriel asks.

  ‘Take a guess,’ Koslowski says between his fingers. His voice is shaking with anger and pain.

  ‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’

  ‘The film,’ the other man replies. ‘Give us the film and we’ll get out of here.’

  ‘Film?’ Gabriel looks at him, puzzled. ‘What film?’

  ‘Don’t play dumb. We know you have it.’

  ‘I don’t have anything. Who sent you? Yuri?’

  ‘You know who sent us. So, give us the tape and we’re gone.’

  ‘What tape?’ Gabriel’s eyes move from one to the other. ‘I have no idea what this is about. If Yuri wants something from me, why doesn’t he just say it? Instead, he throws me out and unloads me at the tip. And now you show up and claim that I’ve got some tape or a film . . . What fucking film would that be?’

  Koslowski and the other man exchange looks.

  ‘The video,’ Koslowski says through his nose. He’s clearly having trouble speaking. ‘It was in the safe at the house on Kadettenweg.’

  Gabriel furrows his brow. ‘The safe was empty.’

  ‘Sarkov said it was in there,’ Koslowski mumbles and tilts his head back because of his bleeding nose, but doesn’t lower his weapon. ‘Sarkov says you pinched the thing.’