Antler Plan (A Konrad Loki Thriller Book 1)

by Joonas Huhta

  4

  KONRAD STOOD IN the doorway of his office with his fist clenching around the handle. His papers sat in neat piles, each book on his shelf lined up. Only one black-spined master’s thesis was nudged out of line in the platoon of his graduate students’ works. The room was the same as hospitals: cold, clean and clinical, as devoid of life as humans could make it.

  Revulsion crept up inside his chest. Had his first dust-allergic girlfriend visited the room?

  Konrad stepped in and placed his compass and knife on the shelf, next to an empty leather holster. The police had returned the items but were shrugging about the missing gun.

  The teen assaulted his memories. He clenched his jaw.

  I’ll find you…

  He undressed his black parka, slung it on his chair and sat.

  A tall, thin woman materialized in the doorway.

  Dean Eliza Mathlin.

  Konrad raised his gaze to meet her glacial blue eyes. She stood with her arms crossed over her black velvet jacket (as always) but with her arms an inch higher than normal.

  “What have you done?”

  The finality in her tone was not lost on Konrad. “Nice to see you too, Eliza. How’s your husband and the kids? Would Marcus be up for ice swimming and grabbing a beer tonight?”

  Eliza’s fingertips now massaged her hands that creeped you out with their unnatural skinniness. “I don’t see that happening.”

  “Come on. You of all the people know gossip when you hear it. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Eliza took a step into his office, almost wincing at sharing his space. “As a friend, I believe you. As a colleague and your supervisor, I can’t—”

  “Yes. You can.”

  “Konrad,” she cut him dead. “The credibility of this faculty is at stake. I can’t ignore the students’ allegations on you. You know our policy.”

  “But—”

  She raised her hand. “Zero tolerance.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You’re fired.”

  Konrad’s jaw dropped.

  Eliza raised her chin. “Clear the office by the end of the day.”

  Konrad offered an open palm, “Please, hear me out.”

  She took a step back. “I strongly advise you to keep your mouth shut.”

  “Or you will accuse me of sexual harassment, is that it?”

  By the end of a long second, he realized the question was too much.

  Two workers brought large carton boxes to the doorway. Their sides bore the name of a moving company.

  “They’re here to help you,” Eliza said.

  “I’m not leaving.”

  Eliza sent the workers away with a jerk of her head. “I feared you might not cooperate.”

  “At least you got that right.” Konrad stood up.

  She backed to the corridor.

  “The guards are instructed to remove you from the premises by six. They have the right to use force. Any personal items you leave will be treated as waste.”

  Konrad reached for the door handle. “I had better get busy then.”

  He closed the door, placed his head against it and gripped his temples. Something primitive in him wanted to choke someone with his bare hands, to see blood.

  What’s happening to me?

  Konrad slumped before his computer. He turned it on. Its slowness competed with a snail crawling up a brick wall.

  A knock landed at the door.

  Konrad jolted up, steaming. He opened the door and yelled, “I’m busy!”

  The teen, with earphones a tangled death around his neck, stared at Konrad with contempt. Dressed in an AC/DC tee shirt and open, battered leather jacket, he held a big carton package under his armpit.

  “Son of a bitch,” Konrad squeezed through his teeth. “Where’s my weapon?”

  In a heartbeat, the teen dropped the package onto Konrad’s toes and rushed away. Konrad shrieked in pain and tried to launch a pursuit, but pain shot nails to his brain. “Run, you shithead. But you know what? I live with a woman! In my own house! A woman who isn’t my mother!”

  A dozen colleagues peeked into the corridor. A few dodged Konrad’s gaze and curses. Others stayed to look at him.

  “Why are you pretending?” Konrad mocked. “We all hate teens. Admit it!”

  Using his leg, Konrad nudged the package into his room, closing the door. He hit the keyboard with his fist and kicked the chair, flipping it over. He pulled it back up, sat and took a spin, eyes closed. As the motion stopped, he faced the only decoration he’d nailed to his office wall. Black text on white:

  That which does not kill us makes us stronger.

  Discovering this thought in his youth had guided him through the worst. People, in general, liked the idea, but not the man who wrote it. The most misunderstood and disrespected philosopher.

  Friedrich Nietzsche.

  The man was a legend, his work marked by a puzzling combination of optimism and pessimism. The more Konrad contemplated him, the more assured he was that Nietzsche had delved further into the dark, inaccessible tunnels of the human psyche than neuroscientists and psychiatrists combined. Despite how troubled Nietzsche was, Konrad regarded him as the only man who knew his mind. Drawing energy from the thought gave him focus.

  He had accidentally crashed the pictures of his two kids flat on the table. As he put them back up, he cracked a smile back at their adorable and prankish faces, the pictures taken in their childhood. He took Nicholas’ photograph on his lap, held its silver frames. Seeing his face always pulled him out of his why-bother pessimism to the heart drilling self-questioning: why breathe?

  “Alright, I’ll give your brother a call,” Konrad sympathized. “Who knows, maybe he’ll put me on hold this time instead of rejecting it.”

  A shadow moved in the small crack under the door. Someone stood behind it.

  A knock.

  Konrad placed the photograph on the table. In the glass reflection, he was in need of a serious resurrection.

  Calm down. No one has any business in my office, not until six.

  The knock repeated in two quick hits.

  Three impatient knocks.

  Konrad bolted to the door and tore it open, seething in rage. “What!?”

  It took a few moments to place the face of the woman, who wore a streamlined, asphalt gray running jacket with tight thumbholes.

  Ruut Stark stared at Konrad, completely under control. She tilted her head. “You look just like my mom when she died.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My mom,” Ruut repeated in her husky voice, “she was a devoted Christian suffering from Alzheimer, and you know what she said to me on her deathbed after I’d taken care of her and dealt with her sudden aggressions for a year?”

  Konrad considered his words. “Thank you?”

  “Want to try again?”

  Konrad shrugged.

  “She told me to ‘Go to hell.’”

  “I see,” Konrad said. “And you’re telling me this because...?”

  “I just told you.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I did,” Ruut said and walked past Konrad into his office, leaving him astounded, taking a glance at the package on the floor. “I mistook you for my mother for a second.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Konrad said, scratching the back of his head. “Look. I’m having the worst day of my life, and I could do with some privacy...”

  “I thought this was luckiest the day of your life.” Ruut picked up the package.

  Konrad looked at it and Ruut in turns. “Is it a bomb? The teenager from the day of the incident… dressed in AC/DC shirt… Twice he has appeared and twice he has made my life miserable. He probably broke my toes.”

  “We all love teens,” Ruut said with a hint of a smile. “The young man has a name, Gideon. And you mistook the logo on his tee shirt. It had the familiar lightning in the middle, but read something that anyone could be diagnosed with these day
s: AD/HD.”

  “I see,” Konrad said, not remembering seeing the difference at all. “Are you family with him by any chance?”

  “I see you’ve got the attention deficit disorder.”

  He admired her boldness with mild irritation. The similarity in their face bone structure was indisputable. “Could I ask your son a few questions?”

  Ruut raised the package higher on her chest. “Sure. Gideon is also my student. I teach teens in my free time. We discuss God and everything. But you should thank him.”

  Konrad snorted. “Now why I would do that?”

  Ruut pushed Konrad’s chest with the package. “It seems he’s your private messenger.”

  He caught the package in mid-air. “Is this what I think it is? Where did he get it?”

  Ruut shrugged, sat and crossed her hands and legs. “The Wicked Bible. I bet I know the content of the Scriptures better than you. Shall we deepen our understanding?”

  “I don’t like taking money from a lady.”

  “I think you do,” Ruut replied.

  Konrad considered the offer. She spotted the artifacts.

  “Now look at these old weapons on the shelf. You have polished all your weaponry to mirror sheen. I can smell gun oil, well taken care of. An expertly customized piece this one here. Custom fit slide. The interlock with the frame is tighter than the original. The change adds precision. And this one has a tactical grip. Tuned for total reliability…”

  Konrad rubbed the back of his head. He glanced at the clock that read 9.11 a.m. Clearing his throat, “Discussing the Bible would only deepen disagreements. And I hardly know you.”

  “Nobody seems to know you, either. You are not nearly as evil as they say. ‘A broken-hearted man set on revenge.’”

  Konrad weighed her direct quotation from the garbage news. She managed to get under his skin. He wanted to keep his mouth shut, for he was getting paranoid at the image that media was conjuring. She could become a target as well.

  “This is not a good idea. I would only offend you. When it comes to religion, I have the gift of spoiling others’ party. Leave me. Take the Bible. Leave your phone number if you want, but go.”

  “Don’t you want to study it?”

  Konrad shoved the package into her arms and pointed at the door.

  “That’s your crusade.”

  RUUT’S LUNGS DIDN’T fill. Unable to gather her thoughts, being once again turned down, she rose and spotted a white bathrobe hanging behind the door. Was this office a Playboy Mansion?

  She walked past Konrad without sharing eye contact. He murmured something and closed the door behind her.

  She held the package close to her chest, and walked away, feeling her cheeks pinking because she didn’t protest at the unexpected gift. Her bravery always made the impact she wanted, but not this time. She wandered the corridor feeling herself a ghost in a wrong building. She was air for all the students flowing by. Outside, she took deep breaths and started walking toward her car. She had a day off, and decided to go to Netta’s school. In her mood, she was ready to kill should she see her daughter being bullied.

  In the parking lot, she walked past a poorly brushed black van and side-glanced inside the cab. The side view mirror on the other side of the van showed a man holding a tablet, and in the screen, a woman was lying on a hood of a sports car.

  Pervert.

  Ruut circled the van, opened the door and yelled at the man who wore a white winter jacket.

  “The best way to get people talking about cars is by selling a woman’s body. But, you know what? The woman isn’t included!”

  The man’s stare was rock solid. Their gazes met and cut.

  Slowly, the man hid the tablet inside his jacket and said, “Beat it.”

  Ruut’s blood froze. The depth of his tone resembled an army command.

  His eyes, like sharp daggers, drilled into hers. He started the engine and sped away.

  Ruut confirmed her theory with his erect pose. An involuntary shiver ran down her spine. She hoped she hadn’t pissed off someone outranking her.

  A shadow loomed over her. A hand landed on her shoulder. The intention was gentle.

  “I’m sorry,” Konrad said. “My life is a disaster zone, and I…” He paused. “I didn’t even thank you for saving my life.”

  Ruut faced him.

  Konrad smiled. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

  5

  THE UNIVERSITY CAFETERIA was quiet. Konrad crumbled a swastika-shaped Christmas tart over the pages of The Wicked Bible.

  “Sorry,” Konrad said with another bite. “These are my weak spot.”

  Ruut wiped the crumbs away and pretended she didn’t notice, as she stroked her throat, which she had been doing for quite some time. She concentrated on the black, leather-bound covers of The Bible. Konrad looked around him: the staff of the cafeteria huffed and puffed behind the counter, the smell of salmon wafting from the kitchen. A cook glanced at Konrad but went quickly back to his work.

  A woman teacher student with bare cleavage walked past them. He had once arrived late to supervise her electrified class where she wore the same peek-a-boo dress. All the girls took hits on their self-esteem as hormone-driven boys asked the teacher’s help in turns to see her bend over their desks. He had immediately guided the children outside to play football and asked her to dress more decently.

  The woman’s upper lip raised on one side as she spotted him. She walked away. Her face reminded him how much such toxic dumping he had practiced in his failed marriage.

  Ruut’s eyes were matte with rapt concentration. She hadn’t touched her coffee. “Look at these marks.”

  He frowned.

  “Get me a knife,” she demanded.

  Questions unasked, Konrad went to pick up a knife. As he returned, Ruut grabbed it and aggressively scratched at the leather surface. The yellowish pages were ravaged by time but exhumed the enigmatic aroma of ancient wisdom.

  “These pores aren’t from an animal,” she said.

  “What is it made of then?”

  “Human skin.”

  Konrad rubbed his brow. “You sure?”

  “Positive. Why would anyone bind a book with human skin?”

  “Do you have the stomach to hear?”

  Ruut laughed. “Cinderella-Boy, I’m a doctor and a professional killer...”

  Konrad smiled. “Anthropodermic bibliology. The books of human flesh are unusual bindings only because the books we know about them are relatively rare. It’s not that grisly if you forget today’s standards, where unique is frowned upon. In the past, the skins used were mostly taken from murderers, mental patients, and John Does.” He laid his hand on The Wicked Bible. “What kind of books would you bind in human skin?”

  Ruut shrugged. “Perhaps something with deep personal meaning.”

  “Yes, the books that deserve to have a human covering deal with death or praise soul. Anatomy books, testaments, poems and prayers, judicial proceedings, erotica volumes, the list goes on. There are far more books like these kept in private, for also lovers and families have left behind a memory in the form of a book. The art dates back to the 17th century, but some Bibles were wrapped with human skin hundreds of years earlier.”

  Ruut face was expressionless.

  “Not convinced? Shall I go into the details? Erotica books take their skins from—”

  “Breathtakingly unerotic. But why this book?”

  Konrad pulled back slightly in his chair.

  “Oona was a priest, did you know?” Ruut said.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “You knew her?”

  “A police officer revealed it.”

  “Did you love her?”

  Konrad took salt and pepper shakers close to him and toyed with a few chopsticks. He knew the question would arise. He managed to let down his guard. “I admire your courage. It was a crush. For two months, she would smile at me on my way to work. I came to like her smile more as each d
ay passed. But I didn’t even greet her until the day I did. I had divorced a day before. I was free, and I said hello to her just to say good-bye. Consider the irony.”

  He continued shifting the place of the objects on the table as if it were a chessboard.

  “When my mother died,” Ruut said, “I thought I needed space. I fell into depression and was angry with my husband for reasons I didn’t understand. He remained close to me. But I blamed him for not being compassionate enough, although he gave everything he had left after his work and taking care of our daughter. I didn’t know how to mourn. I was reliving the moment when my mother told me to go to hell. I had misled myself into thinking I was tough like my father who was a farmer, who knew endurance. That sheer memory had become my prison, and I had to realize that freedom is not a place but a condition. Oona taught me that.”

  “Easing grief through spirituality is normal, although there is grief beyond belief,” Konrad said. “Your husband did the right thing. It’s an illusion to think that people need space in crises. You were hurt, but you didn’t have to say that no cared about you.”

  “I knew there’s a spiritual side inside of you. Did your life pass before your eyes when you lost consciousness?”

  “No. But Hugh Hefner’s life did.”

  “Don’t dodge,” Ruut exasperated. “You’re famous for thorny opinions that raise the gastric acid into people’s mouths. You’re not a threat to my faith. The tests of faith are never-ending. It’s easy to become a believer, but staying in the faith isn’t. You see religion as irrational, useless, and dangerous. I see it as a source of inspiration and love. Science doesn’t inspire the average human being the way religion does. Because of your standpoint—that God is unnamed, unidentified, undetected, and unneeded—you can quickly come up with a counter-argument. Humor me, what comes to your mind first. Oona once said, ‘Religion is an apple tree, and God its roots.’”

  Konrad blinked.

  “Your initial impression?” Ruut asked.

  “The venomous roots of a dead standing tree.”

  “See?”

  Konrad smiled. “Your point?”

  “Zero critical thinking. Zero reasoning. Zero credibility. Your believer profile. Sometimes you hit the target, but you are no better when going berserk with science.”