by T E Stouyer
He worried that if Jordi knew the kind of danger he and Marie had faced, the other detectives would see it on the technician’s face. Which meant that everyone in the department would know about it by lunchtime the following day.
The two detectives would then be ordered back to Berlin without delay. And they would have to explain exactly how they were connected to a shooting that had taken place in the French capital. Not to mention they would also have to give a detailed account of the circumstances in which Hans had nearly lost his life.
Hans decided he wasn’t ready to have this particular conversation with his chief. People jumping across building rooftops … men flinging him up in the air as though he weighed no more than a grocery bag … knives flying around on their own … absolutely not. At best, he’d be put on administrative leave long enough to have his head examined. At worst … well, no one in their right mind would think it’s a good idea to let a person of questionable sanity roam the streets carrying a loaded gun.
Besides, Marie would be the one getting most of the blame. It was her idea to come to Paris, for what was essentially an unauthorized investigation. She had kept secret the fact that she knew the victim—Mr. Schmidt—personally, as well as other pieces of information relevant to the investigation into his murder. Not the least of which was an actual viable lead.
And her motive for all of this? Revenge, for the murder of her friend.
Never mind being dismissed from the police force, she stood a decent chance of ending up in jail.
Hans knew Marie’s impulse to tell the truth was born out of concern for his well-being. She probably figured it would be safer for him to be taken back to Berlin at the earliest possible time, regardless of the consequences for her. But he had no intention of letting his partner fall on her sword over a decision he himself had made. She had warned him that it was dangerous to stay. He had chosen to do so anyway.
He gazed up at her and shook his head.
She remained silent.
“Hey, I heard that,” Jordi exclaimed over the speaker. “Tell that smart-ass I only asked because I wanted to make sure he didn’t get lost on the way to France. I’m surprised he didn’t end up in Belgium or Italy, instead.”
“No, he’s here,” Marie replied in a tame voice.
“Good,” said Jordi. “I feel better knowing someone else is there with you. Even if it’s just Hans.”
“Yeah,” Marie said.
“All right, call me if you need anything else.”
“I will. And Jordi … thanks again.”
She hung up and stared absently at her phone.
Hans studied his partner for a moment. “I know what you’re thinking, Marie. Normally, I wouldn’t bother telling you not to go. But whatever’s going on here is definitely not normal. It’s far too dangerous.”
She glanced at him but said nothing.
“Look,” he continued. “I get that you and Schmidt were close. I get it, I really do. But I doubt he’d want you to risk your life on his account. Come to think of it, that’s probably why he didn’t tell you anything. He was trying to protect you.”
“I know,” she said, wearing a sad expression. “You don’t understand, Hans. That night when I found him grieving the death of his friend. That night, I saw how scared he was. But I didn’t do anything. I didn’t tell anyone. In his own way, he tried to tell me that something bad was going to happen to him, but I didn’t hear him. I didn’t listen. And tonight … tonight, I came face-to-face with the man who killed him.”
Hans placed his hand over his wound. “I know. I met him too.”
“The killer … he said something … he said it was my fault. I need to know what he meant. I need to see this through.”
“Even if it kills you?”
Marie didn’t answer. She thought about her close call earlier that night. About the tip of the blade pressed against her chest. If it hadn’t been for the killer’s own associate, she would have most likely been killed.
“Don’t worry, Hans,” she said. “Now that I know what I’m up against, I’ll be more careful. I promise.”
The two exchanged a long look.
“Fine,” Hans finally said. “Anyway, it’s not like I could stop you in my current condition.”
She gently touched him on the arm and smiled. “Thanks, Hans. I’ll let you get some rest, now.”
Marie started on her way out. But as she neared the door, she stopped and turned around.
“Don’t worry about me,” said Hans. “We used fake IDs, remember? No one here knows who I am. Besides, those guys could have finished me off if they wanted to. But they didn’t. Clearly, they don’t care what happens to me, one way or the other. You, on the other end …”
“I know … but they did let me go. Well, one of them did. It’s OK, like I said, from now on, I’ll be more careful.”
Marie left Hans’ room and went to the elevators opposite the nurses’ station.
Doctor Laplace was waiting for her there.
“Ms. Vogel—that was the name she had given the hospital staff—could I have a quick word?” the doctor asked.
“Of course,” she replied.
He steered her away from the nurses tending the station and said, “It’s about your friend, Mr. Ritter.”
“What about him?” she asked in a worried voice.
“I’m not sure how to put this,” Doctor Laplace said, sounding uneasy. “Mr. Ritter told me that he was stabbed during a mugging. He said that a man tried to rob him, and that the stabbing was a result of the altercation that ensued when he tried to fight off the mugger.”
“OK …”
“The problem I have is that the depth and the angle of the wound would seem to suggest that the knife was thrown at Mr. Ritter from a distance. Now, I can’t be completely sure of course—”
“No, the knife wasn’t thrown,” she interrupted.
“Oh, you were there?”
“Yes, but I only saw it from afar. I was on my way to meet him. It happened just as I was getting out of my car.”
“I see.” The doctor gave her a long, searching look, and then finally said, “In that case, have a good night. If you want to come back tomorrow, visiting hours are from 8 a.m.”
“Actually, I don’t know if I’ll be back tomorrow. There’s an urgent matter I need to attend to.” She looked around briefly, and then headed over to the nurses’ station. She found a small piece of paper, scribbled something on it, and then came back and handed it to the doctor. “Here. It’s my cell phone number.”
Doctor Laplace looked surprised. “We should already have your number on file, Ms. Vogel. Didn’t someone ask you to fill out a form?”
“This is my personal number,” she insisted.
The other phone number was a dummy she and Hans had set up just in case. It would invariably go to voicemail after a couple of rings. She wouldn’t even know someone had called until she went online and checked her messages. It was the best way to make sure the number couldn’t be used to track them.
The doctor took the piece of paper. “Very well, then.”
“I would appreciate it if you kept this number to yourself,” said Marie. “Please don’t log it into the hospital records. It’s my private line. I usually only give it to my close friends and relatives.”
“Yes, of course,” he said. “I understand. And here’s my card, should you wish to get in touch with me.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” she said as she took the card and shook his hand.
Doctor Laplace watched her as she walked over to the elevator and entered the carriage. And he continued to stare absently at the elevator doors, even after she was gone. He had felt a strange vibe from her. She had tried her best to appear calm and collected, but he could tell something had shaken her profoundly. Of course, it was perfectly normal to feel anxious after such a dreadful ordeal. But his years of experience in dealing with victims of violent crimes told him there might be more to it.
He
spaced out for a while longer, until one of the nurses called out to him.
“Doctor! … Doctor!”
Chapter 7 – Children
“Doctor Whitmore!” a man in glasses shouted angrily as he barged into the lab. “I demand you put an end to this, immediately.”
The lab was a vast and spacious room with light-blue walls and blue floor mats. The ceiling was made out of greyish sandstone tiles and was covered by an intricate pattern of plaster lights.
The room was divided into five stations thirty feet apart from one another. And each station was fitted with an electric medical bed surrounded by various high-tech equipment, including a computer panel with three overhead monitors and a PET scanner ring.
Three men in long white blouses were standing at the three stations farther away from the entrance—one at each station. And lying on the beds next to each of them was a child in a skin-tight black outfit.
The children were held down by straps wrapped around their wrists and ankles, and each one had over a dozen electrode-pads attached to their body. They moaned in pain as the pads repeatedly discharged bursts of high-voltage electricity directly into their muscles.
Meanwhile, the men in white noted their observations and recorded various readings on their panels.
When the man in glasses burst into the lab, one of the men in white stepped away from his station and came to meet him. “Professor Fournier! What are you doing here? I thought that you and Professor Karpov were attending a conference in London this week.”
Doctor Stanislas Whitmore was a short man with thinning grey hair. Though he was only in his mid-fifties, his gaunt face, emaciated body, and pale yellowish skin gave the impression that he was much older.
“I returned before the others because I didn’t like the idea of leaving you here alone with no one to look over your shoulder,” Fournier replied. “Now, perhaps you can answer your own question. What are you doing here? As one of the lead scientists on this project I demand an answer.”
“Of course, Professor,” said Whitmore. “We’re merely testing their pain tolerance levels.”
“And who gave you permission to even think about doing something like that?” Fournier shouted.
“My superiors in Washington sanctioned—”
“Your military puppeteers have no authority here,” Fournier interrupted. “We have total autonomy regarding all testing procedures.”
Whitmore clenched his teeth in frustration but tried to remain calm. “There’s really no need for all of this unpleasantness,” he said. “My experiments are just as valuable as the ones you and Professor Karpov—”
“You call this an experiment?” Fournier interrupted again, his face red with anger. “This … this perversion. Good heavens man, you’re torturing children!”
“Children?” Whitmore said with a forced laugh. “They may look like children, but you and I both know they are not. They’re freaks, monsters … aberrations that shouldn’t even exist.”
Fournier moved closer to Whitmore and looked him straight in the eye. “I see only one monster here.”
“May I remind you, Professor, that since they’ve all failed to live up to their potential as reliable soldiers due to their … psychological deficiencies, we’re now free to study their abnormal physical and physiological characteristics in more depth.”
“Enough of this nonsense!” Fournier barked. “You, there,” he called to one of Whitmore’s assistants. “Shut off those cursed devices, immediately. I’m taking the children out of here.”
The assistant turned to Whitmore, hesitant.
“Erm … perhaps a compromise then,” Whitmore hissed. “You take the two boys and leave the girl here with me for another hour or two. She might not be as strong as the others but she seems to possess the highest pain threshold. It would be of—”
“Are you mad?” Fournier bellowed.
Suddenly, a loud scream resounded inside the lab, drawing everyone’s attention.
It had come from the boy at the furthermost bed.
Fournier and Whitmore shot a questioning look at the assistant standing next to the child.
“I didn’t do anything,” the man in white promptly said.
The boy turned his head and glared at Whitmore. Then, he closed his fists and contracted every muscle in his body.
“Is he trying to …” the assistant started to formulate the question that had popped into everyone’s mind.
They all knew what the child was trying to accomplish. But they also knew it was impossible, even for those children. They were certain of it. A certainty held together by the unbreakable restraints that tethered the boy to the metallic bed frame.
But when all four straps snapped at once as the boy curled up and brought his knees and forearms towards his chest, they all froze in stupefaction.
They had studied the children for over a decade, measuring their abilities and monitoring their progress in every way imaginable. Nothing in those studies suggested that this boy would be able to break free of those specially made harnesses. Not at his age. The scientists’ brains needed time to integrate this new startling data. Like a computer needing to reboot after a major update.
The boy, on the other hand, wasted no time putting his freedom to use. He rolled on his shoulders, raised his legs over his head, and wrapped them around the neck of the man standing next to him.
“What are you—”
Before the assistant could finish his question, the boy crushed his skull against the bed frame.
The man died instantly.
At first, the scientists’ curiosity had blinded them to the danger they now faced. But the sight of their dead colleague lying on the floor carried the threat to its rightful place: at the forefront of their immediate concerns.
The boy jumped off the bed and ran straight towards the man standing at the next station.
“Wait! Wait!” the man pleaded, raising both hands in front of him.
He would have had better luck talking down a charging bull.
The boy vaulted over the next bed and thrust his legs into the assistant’s chest, knocking him hard against the panel.
Two down. One to go.
Whitmore had done the math as well. He dashed towards the exit in a frantic panic, yelling, “Guards! guards!”
The lab doors opened immediately, and six men in riot-control gears, complete with helmets, body pads, shields, batons, and tasers rushed into the room.
Whitmore was almost at the door. He slowed down and breathed in relief. Help had arrived, and the child was too far away to reach him in time.
But as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw an object spinning through the air and flying towards him at high speed.
The boy had ripped out a monitor from its supporting frame and had launched it at the doctor, turning the flat screen into a lethal Frisbee.
A stiff gasp escaped Whitmore just before impact.
Luckily for him, it wasn’t a clean hit. The tall rack next to him had taken the brunt of the attack. But Whitmore was still hit with enough force to snap his head back and cause it bump violently against the wall.
He dropped to the floor, bloodied and unconscious.
The guards drew their tasers and took aim at the child, but Fournier quickly jumped in front of them.
“Hold it!” the professor shouted. He then turned to the boy and said, “Ashrem, Stop!”
But the boy was looking past him, and staring menacingly at the guards.
Fournier moved closer to the child, to the point where he masked the guards from his view. “Ashrem, please, calm down. It’s over.”
“I won’t let him hurt my sister again,” said Ashrem.
“I know, I know,” said Fournier. He knelt down and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “I won’t let him hurt her either. I promise.”
“What did we do wrong, Professor?” Ashrem asked. “Why are they doing this to us?” His anger had all but faded, giving way to a child’s anguish an
d sorrow.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, my boy. Not you, not your brothers, and not your sisters. None of you did anything wrong.” Fournier wrapped his arms around the child and added with teary eyes, “I’m sorry, son. I’m so sorry for all of this.”
Ashrem hugged the professor and began to weep as well.
The other two children had watched the whole incident in silence as they remained tied to their beds. The one at the nearest station lifted up his head. His blond locks fell to the sides, uncovering a strange grin.
“Eh-eh, nice. I didn’t think you had it in you, Ash.”
“That’s enough, Johann!” Fournier chided.
Deep down, however, the professor felt the same way. Ashrem had always been a tame and gentle kid. Fournier had never once heard him so much as raise his voice in anger. Not even when Johann and Kadyna teased him relentlessly for being too soft. Though he did his best not to show it, the professor was genuinely astounded to find that the kindhearted Ashrem was capable of that level of brutality.
Fournier stood back up and ordered the guards to wait outside.
Their leader protested, citing protocol and regulations, as well as a basic concern for the professor’s safety. But Fournier wouldn’t hear of it. He ordered them out and told them to take Whitmore and his assistant—the one still alive—to the medical wing, and to remove the other assistant’s body from the lab.
Once the guards had left, Fournier took Ashrem’s hand as they went to free the other two children.
They unfastened Johann’s restraints first since he was closest to them, and then moved on to the last station.
But as they neared the girl’s bed, the professor stopped in his tracks.
Her large brown eyes were fixed on Ashrem. She had turned her head slightly and was staring unblinkingly at him.
Her face was devoid of all expressions. A porcelain doll.
At that moment, Jerome Fournier witnessed something he thought he would never see.
Mitsuki was crying.
