by Blake Pierce
“Thank you,” he said.
“But she’s smaller. If she wanted to, she could sidle this way.” Adele showed him, slipping through the brush and moving with a crab step through the trees. “So while she was running from something, scared, she also moved quietly. Maybe that means she’s used to moving through the woods. Avoiding noise.”
“Or else she’s just a clever girl, and was being chased by someone. Didn’t want to be heard breaking branches.”
“Maybe,” Adele said, trailing off. She sighed and turned. “You’re right, though. She was out here for hours. There’s no telling which direction she came from. She was lost, nearly frostbitten, and delusional. She could have meandered in circles for all we know.”
John also breathed heavily and looked through the trees, his eyes straining as he spotted orange jackets moving through the forest, glimpsed occasionally as the search parties spread out.
Just then, John’s hand twitched toward his waist. He frowned and pulled out his phone, raising it to his ear. A pause, then in French, “Hello?”
John listened for a moment, and Adele watched him quizzically. She raised an eyebrow.
“It’s Robert,” he said, quietly. Then he listened a bit more.
Adele waited, the cold still settling on her, her breath coming in vaporous puffs.
She scanned the forest as John spoke with Robert. Why had the girl avoided the trees? Why had she been so careful to step through the undergrowth, not breaking anything? That wasn’t a natural skill for someone running for their lives. Adele had been in forests before. She had been chased through some before herself. And cold, with adrenaline, usually precluded caution and care around the small branches and thin brush.
She turned to John as he lowered the phone. “What is it?”
“Robert says the girl’s parents put together a list of known locations. The last place she mailed them from was a youth hostel at the edge of the forest not far north of the High Rhine.”
“Youth hostel?” said Adele.
“Basically a B&B for college kids,” John explained, although Adele knew what a hostel was. “A lot of backpackers use it. Word of mouth, some reviews online. Robert had one of the techs cross-reference it with our sixteen other missing persons and found others had stayed there.”
“How many of them?”
“Three,” said John. “Two girls and one fellow. All of them college age. All of them foreign. They posted about it on social media or checked in on apps. There’s a chance that even more stayed there, but we only have three confirmed.”
“And all of these are still missing people? None of them were found?”
John shook his head. “Still missing. Same hostel. Same as Amanda.”
Adele frowned. She glanced toward the trees at the undisturbed brush once more, then breathed a long jet of steam. “All right, let’s go check it out.”
CHAPTER TEN
John growled. “Ask her if she knew our victim.”
“What’s he saying?” said the hostel manager, glancing from John to Adele.
John returned the manager’s look with equal amounts of suspicion.
Adele translated, “He wants to know if you remember the American, Amanda Johnson. Online, it says you have to register to check in. You have access to those files?”
The hostel manager stood in the doorway of the small, two-story house. Next to the glass door, a small black chalkboard had green letters reading, “Welcome. Check in from 9 to 5. Check out 12 PM sharp. No smoking.”
Adele glanced toward the asphalt driveway. A scattering of trees surrounded the drive, and someone had extended the drive with gravel dumped between the trees, then pushed out with rakes or shovels toward the forest. Five cars were parked in the driveway or on the gravel. One of them, Adele and John had used to reach the hostel. The others, though, looked in different states of repair and care, suggesting different owners.
“You have guests with you now?” Adele asked.
The manager raised an eyebrow at her. She crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips. She had on a white apron, and her hands were dusted with flour. A pencil was stuck behind one ear, and a slight glaze of sweat covered her brow, suggesting perhaps she’d been in the kitchen with the oven on.
“Which question do you want me to answer?” said the manager.
Adele cleared her throat where she stood on the porch with John next to her. She glanced past the woman into the hostel, expectantly. But the woman stayed on the porch, refraining from inviting them in.
“Look,” said the manager, “I have records, and I keep a registry. For my sake as much as theirs. This is a youth hostel. Age limit of thirty. We like to keep it that way. Tend to only have shorter-term guests, who are willing to move on if they need to.”
“We?” said Adele.
“I run this place with my sister. Yes.”
“And you’re Ms. Schroeder?” said Adele.
“You may call me Michelle,” said the woman, without cracking so much as a smile. She adjusted the pencil behind her ear, causing a flecking of dust to dislodge from her fingers onto the side of her hair.
John cleared his throat and said, “What’s she saying?”
“She says she runs the place with her sister,” Adele translated in French. She switched back to German. “Would it be all right if my partner and I step in? Quite cold out here.”
Ms. Schroeder crossed her arms even tighter now, as if she were hugging herself. “Are you over the age of thirty?”
Adele chuckled nervously. “Guilty as charged.”
Ms. Schroeder shrugged. “House rules. Unless you have a warrant, I need you to stay outside. The tenants would feel uncomfortable.”
“I can’t say that makes much sense to me. Fine. You’re saying Amanda Johnson did stay here, though?”
“Well, when you called ahead, I went and looked up the names you gave me.” The woman stared at Adele, almost as if she were challenging her. Then, from memory, without so much as a glance at a piece of paper, or her eyes rolling to the side in recollection, she said, “Amanda Johnson, Catherine Waters, Ross Ortega, and Yusuf Yazici.”
Adele nodded. “Impressive.”
The woman kept her arms crossed. “Yes, well, we’re a bit of a family here. Most don’t stay long. But many are frequent visitors. Will come for summers to go backpacking or for minimalist excursions.”
She extended a hand toward the asphalt and gravel driveway, indicating a portion of cleared woods beyond the first row of trees. Adele had spotted it on the way in. There was a small gate, with white flowers dappling the top of the wooden structure. Within, through the slats, she spotted a small garden bed, with different pots and different colors of plants. Most of them weren’t growing during the winter, but she saw spotted notecards and signs. A layer of translucent fabric was suspended above the small garden, like fishing nets, with hooks attached to the trees above, protecting twigs and leaves from falling, and perhaps also protecting from snow.
“You do your own gardening?”
“Everyone does,” she said. “Many of the people that come through here rent out portions of the garden. Long-term. The red tomatoes, cucumbers.” She shrugged. “This place isn’t so much somewhere to stay, as a launching pad for a way of life.”
John huffed in frustration next to Adele, now leaning against the wooden banister of the porch rail. “What’s she saying now?” he said.
“Merde, Renee! She’s talking about vegetables, you wouldn’t care. Shush.” Adele glanced back at the woman. “So you have college-aged kids. Are they all international? Of those names you mentioned, not all of them are German.”
“Only Catherine Waters is German,” said Ms. Schroeder. For the first time she uncrossed her arms, and her hands twisted at the front of her apron.
Adele glanced through the open doorway into the house. She saw movement for the first time. A couple of people were in the kitchen, trying to get a look at those in the door.
Ms. Schroeder seemed to notice the attention. She didn’t try to interrupt it, nor did she try to move to block anyone’s view. But her expression of disapproval only increased, directed toward John and Adele.
“Like I said, my tenants are here for a certain way of life. They don’t enjoy the presence of people in your line of work.”
“Federal agents?”
“Authority,” said Ms. Schroeder. “Everyone here is equal. Those badges will matter to some, not to others.”
Adele sniffed. “These are college kids, yes?”
“Some. But there are others that prefer the lifestyle. They like the forests. They like leaving things behind. Many of them don’t even have cars. There are currently five people staying here, two of them hitchhiked.”
Adele raised an eyebrow. “There’s a few cars in the drive. Did no one come with someone else?”
Ms. Schroeder said, “Many of them travel alone. It’s part of the appeal of the experience. Minimalist living, isolation, quiet. Getting in touch with yourself.” She shrugged. “As for those names, yes, all four of them stayed here.”
Adele frowned. “That’s what our records showed too. I’m sorry to say, but all four of those names are of people who have gone missing.”
Ms. Schroeder blinked, her expression of disapproval fading and transitioning for a moment to one of surprise, and then a flash of grief. “All of them?” She sighed and crossed her arms again. A defensive posture. “Well, I can assure you it’s not anything to do with my place. It is worth knowing the sorts of people who come through here are free spirits. Perhaps there’s a chance they simply are still living off-grid.”
Adele shook her head. “Most of those names are college kids. Missing. Haven’t contacted their parents in months. It’s out of ordinary. One of them, Catherine, has been missing for more than a year.”
Ms. Schroeder passed a hand through her hair, streaking flour once more.
“Look,” said Adele, “you don’t remember them, do you?”
“Like I said, this is a family. But it’s a large one. During summers, I have as many as two hundred tenants come through. During winter, it’s a bit less, but not that much. Maybe a hundred. There are some repeat customers, but not many. I’m sorry, but I can’t keep track of everyone. It’s why I keep the registry. I have names and phone numbers. But that’s about it.”
Adele whistled softly. “That many clients?”
Ms. Schroeder shrugged. “What can I say, this place has a bit of a reputation my sister and I have worked hard to build. A lot of the people call it an oasis. Like I said, a launching pad.”
“For those who want to live this lifestyle. Got it.”
Adele glanced back toward the parked vehicles. One of them was a normal sedan with tinted windows. The others, though, were larger. Vans, one SUV. Also with tinted windows. The van had a sun sheath over the front windshield. Small, magnetic curtains had been attached within the SUV windows.
“They live out of their cars?”
“When they go further into the forests, yes. RV living, off the grid. There are many campgrounds in the area. Some of them stick to the legal parks, but a lot will park in the forests and mountains, other places.”
Adele frowned. “Private property?”
Ms. Schroeder pursed her lips. “I don’t encourage it, but I imagine so, yes. Like I said, my tenants are free-spirited sorts.”
Adele, though, shifted uncomfortably. She glanced over her shoulder at the cars again.
More than three hundred clients a year, four missing. Not a large number, and certainly not enough for there to be a pattern. From what Robert had dug up, this hostel, the oasis, was very popular among the sorts that came through. German students, some of them. Many international as well. The place had over two hundred five-star reviews on the various websites it advertised on.
Which meant that reputation, combined with the registry Ms. Schroeder kept, would make this a poor place for the kidnapper’s hunting grounds.
But RVs, camping in the mountains, private property. That would be a better way to bait his hook. That would be when the kidnapper struck; Adele could feel the certainty of this pulsing through her.
“If there’s nothing else, me and a couple of my tenants were making food. Sun-dried tomato pasta. Organic. You’re welcome to try some. If you’re willing to wait.”
Adele glanced at the furniture on the patio, but shook her head. “Thank you, but no. If there’s anything else you can remember about those names, please don’t hesitate to call. Here’s my business card.”
Ms. Schroeder accepted the small card and watched as Adele turned, moving with John down the steps back to their waiting vehicle. As they moved away, John began pestering her with questions, and slowly she filled him in on what she’d learned. As they entered the car, with Ms. Schroeder still standing in the doorway watching them, her hair frazzled and dusted with flour, her eyes narrowed like a vulture, John said, “She gives me the creeps. I bet you she did it. I think she’s the killer.”
“Shut up, John. It’s not her.”
John shrugged. “This place is weird. I bet you there’s some sort of hidden basement nearby. A slaughter shed. I bet you she’s baking those tenants into her pies.”
“I’m serious, shut up.”
He raised his hands. “Sorry, just joking.”
Adele massaged her chin, thinking.
“What is it?” he said, glancing across the gearshift toward her. His one arm was draped over the steering wheel, his other fumbling with the keys, though his eyes were fixed on her as he tried to find the keyhole by memory.
“There’s an entire community of backpackers that come through these parts. This isn’t the only hostel in the area. It has a good reputation, but there are others. Some with even more reviews. I’m going to have Robert see if he can tie any of the other missing people to those places.”
“All right, so?”
“So, Catherine went missing almost two years ago. These places have been operating for decades. What if this guy has been kidnapping people for longer than we thought without getting caught? What if he’s been doing this forever?”
John winced. “This is what you and Foucault were saying, yes? This region—the Black Forest. People go missing?”
Adele nodded slowly. “They’re not pretty stories. Mostly an urban legend—at least, so I thought. But if he’s really been operating in this area for that long, perhaps the stories are earned. Maybe the reputation is true.”
“If the bastard has been operating for that long, well then, he’s due to be nabbed.”
“Maybe. But it also means he’s gotten really good at it. There’s nothing worse than a practiced psychopath. The sooner you catch them, the less time they have to develop their craft, but if you catch them late, they’ve already figured out all sorts of tricks and tactics to avoid apprehension.”
“And do you think you have an idea of what he might be doing to avoid us?”
Adele glanced through the window, toward the front of the two-story house in the forest. The front door was closed now. The chalkboard attached next to the door frame was illegible from this far.
“There are a lot of people who come here to backpack and live in the mountains. To use RVs or makeshift campers. Some of them park on legal grounds, but according to Ms. Schroeder, others just park in the mountains, forests. Some of them find private property.”
John’s eyes narrowed. “You think that’s how he’s finding his victims? Little lost lambs, running astray into a wolf’s lair?”
“It’s worth checking out. But I’m worried, John. Amanda is the only person who’s escaped. There are no stories of some serial kidnapper in the mountains, keeping people locked up. There are abductions, yes, and some people are found again, dead. But the missing people, the ones who stayed gone—of them, Amanda is the first to come back.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there’s no telling how he’s gonna react. He might str
ike again. Soon. I don’t think he’s going to like the idea of her escaping. Someone as practiced at this, for who knows how long—he’s going to take it as a personal insult. He’s going to react, and when people like this react, it never ends well for innocent folk.”
Silence reigned for a moment in the car. John frowned, now no longer looking at Adele, but staring through the front of the windshield at the trees ahead and the small trail leading through the forest and down the hill. “What a pleasant thought,” he said. “We better get going then.”
Adele didn’t reply; a glaze of fog formed from her breath against the cold glass. They pulled away from the hostel and moved down the hill, curving the forest path and heading back in the direction of the main highway.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The cold forest seemed to fold in on itself around him as Diedrich moved through the trees. The twenty-year-old had lost the rest of his search party. The orange fabric of his safety jacket was displayed vibrantly against his black coat. He had stopped to relieve himself among the trees and returned only to find he’d headed in the wrong direction. In the distance, he could hear the sound of the group he traveled with. He had the whistle around his neck, and his sleek eyeglasses were in his hand as he rubbed the thin glaze of fog from them.
Embarrassing to be the leader of one of the groups, then get lost. His friends Michael and Juergen would tease him for hours once he returned. But that required he first find the rest of them. He shouldn’t have gone so far for privacy. He thought it would’ve been an easy enough thing to find his way back… but the woods were expansive.
“Hello?” he called.
In the distance, he thought he heard a pause, then voices.
“Hello?!” he called again.
He glimpsed a flash of orange through the trees far above, over a ridge. He remembered walking down a hill, moving behind the copse for privacy. He felt a slight bolster of relief and began moving up the hill now, but then came to a pause.