“No,” she said and gasped in astonishment. “No. It was twenty years ago. It can’t have anything to do with Marie. Please tell me it’s got nothing to do with Marie.”
“His name,” Felix said. “Tell us his name!”
“Johannes,” she said.
“Last name?”
She held her breath, her eyes started to flicker. They all held their breath.
“Last name?” Felix asked.
“Reuter,” she said. “Johannes Reuter.”
They looked at each other. They knew at once they’d heard the name before. Something clicked in their brains, slowly, but it clicked.
Johannes Reuter.
They knew the name, but from where?
It clicked louder, the fog lifted slowly, disappearing like bubbles in a foam bath. Johannes Reuter.
Franza looked at the photo, imagined him without the long hair, added twenty years. Some people were like good wine, only coming into full bloom after many years.
It came clear to them both at the same time. They looked at each other and knew. A full head of hair, athletic build, likeable, good-looking—murderers didn’t walk around with signs hung around their necks. Johannes Reuter. English and chemistry. Marie’s teacher.
Marie’s mother knew it, too.
“How did she know him?” she whispered. “How is all this connected? What happened?”
“Tell us,” Franza said. “Tell us what happened back then.”
“We were in the car,” Judith said in a monotone. “He was driving. Suddenly the girl was there. It was raining, we could barely see. It was a thunderstorm. We’d had a wonderful day, we were planning our future, we were together and in love. But all of a sudden this girl was there, lying on the road. And the rain was beating down on her.”
58
She woke up. It startled him; he hadn’t expected it. She tried to get up, swayed, and fell back down. “What?” she said.
All right, he thought, feeling some relief, it’s OK. This is going to be all right. Back to town, to the hospital, explain, talk, explain some more, the doctors, the police, his wife, Judith.
He spread a blanket over the backseat of his car and lifted her up. She groaned. He put her on the blanket and carefully placed her head onto a second blanket so that the blood wouldn’t ruin his seats.
She won’t say anything, he thought, shaking his head with determination. I’ll save her, and she won’t say anything. We’ll go to Berlin. Lisa Fürst is all over.
Is it ever all over for death?
He turned on his directional signal as he left the parking lot, his headlights cutting through the darkness. Soon there would be traffic.
She was restless, groaned, tried to sit up. “Stay down,” he said. “You’re hurt. I’m taking you to a hospital.”
“No,” she said. “Don’t. Take me home. Take me to Ben.” That had been it. Nothing else.
We won’t then.
We just won’t. But how could she wreck everything?
For the second time. Wreck the dream of love that he’d had for so long.
Judith had jumped out of the car and left him. He felt it as if it had just happened yesterday. The moment had lasted an eternity. They had been swimming in the Danube, then the thunderstorm, then rushing to the car. They were still laughing, still happy. Then the child in the middle of the road, then the child on the windshield, then the blood and the drumming of the rain.
Both of them had jumped out of the car and run to the child, but she was lying there without moving. There was nothing they could do. A distant melody in the clouds.
He’d spun around, once, twice. There was no one to be seen, just Judith and him. “Get in,” he’d said. “We’re going.”
She turned to him, slowly, staring at him in horror. He grabbed her by the arm and pushed her toward the car. “We’re going,” he said. “We’re going!”
She recovered from her shock and began fighting him. “Are you crazy?” she said. “We can’t just . . .”
And she turned around and started walking toward the child, but he grabbed her again, dragged her into the car. She screamed and fought back, and then he hit her.
He screamed into her ear that the child was dead. There was nothing they could do, nothing.
He screamed that his life would be destroyed if they stayed. Is that what she wanted, his life . . . destroyed.
He realized he was still hitting her, again and again, but she . . .
His voice broke, his hand stopped.
. . . she was silent, finally.
He turned around. The rain was washing the blood off the child’s head, a girl. This child—this girl—was responsible for this shit! He got into the car and drove away. Judith in the backseat was still shutting the fuck up!
He drove and drove. He wasn’t sure where to go, but somewhere where he’d be seen, where he’d be remembered. Someplace where they’d say: Yes, he was there! He was definitely there.
In case the cops went looking for him and he needed it later. He heard a sound like a woman’s voice in his ears, soft, high-pitched. Judith in the rearview mirror was lying there stiff, stupid bitch, stiff face and stiff eyes. They were all stupid bitches! Then he knew . . . no more love, no more of Judith’s love, never again, not on the Danube, nowhere, never again.
The silence and the trembling and the terrible loneliness came afterward. “Get away from me,” she’d said. “Never come near me again.” Her voice was firm and steady, almost businesslike.
He pulled up outside a pub in town, and she got out. She was swaying a little, and he tried to catch her, to hold her, but she raised her arms defensively. “Don’t touch me!” she’d said. “Don’t touch me.” Then she’d walked away, across the street and into an alleyway he was unfamiliar with. She was limping slightly, and he asked himself why. He hadn’t hit her hard enough to make her limp. He couldn’t have; it was nothing!
He shook his head and tried to laugh. He succeeded a little. Then he tried to imprint forever on his memory how she looked. It was the last look he would have of her, and it remained his picture of her for all those years. He could see how she disappeared into the alleyway in her bright, almost transparent white dress, low-cut in the front and back with half sleeves; the red straps of her bikini at her neck; her wide linen pants; the purple espadrilles; and her dark hair pinned up hastily. Loose strands of hair hung down, her neck and arms were tanned, and still the rain pouring down. It made her look more transparent than she really was.
He felt a sob inside him, an urge to cry out loud. He wanted to run after her, but already there was an invisible barrier between them. It got larger and larger the farther she walked away from him, and he realized he would never be able to cry on her shoulder again.
Eventually he went into the bar and got drunk. Death tasted of apple liqueur, love of elderberry schnapps, despair of nothing.
All those years no one had ever asked him for an alibi.
No one had ever even mentioned her name to him: Lisa Fürst. And now her of all people—Judith’s daughter. Was this Judith’s belated revenge, a revenge that she’d never even know about?
What’s life worth? he thought and felt despair grip him. He hit the brakes and heard Judith’s daughter scream as she slid into the gap between the seats. The skinny little girl, skinny enough to fit into the gap—she could stay there.
Shit, he thought, she’s making a mess of my car. They always make a mess of my car, from the outside or the inside—why do I always have to deal with this bullshit?!
The road was wet, the car careened to the side, across the shoulder, and into the grass.
Marie groaned between the seats. She’d forfeited all rights, still crying for Ben! Stupid bitches! All of them, stupid bitches!
He’d wanted to change his life, leave his wife and children, make a whole new start—and she?
What did she do? Cried for Ben!
He got out of the car and opened the door behind his seat.
&
nbsp; She looked up at him painfully. “My leg,” she said, “I think I twisted it.”
He didn’t reply.
“What are you doing?” she asked, astonished as he grabbed her under the arms. She screamed out in pain. Then he let go.
“You’re doing it again,” she said with a trembling voice. He could sense she was afraid. It gave him a strangely exhilarated feeling. He the cat, she the mouse—death between them.
She passed out again, all of a sudden. Shock, maybe?
He just stood there, wiping his face with his hand. He felt it was wet, but didn’t know whether it was from the rain or because he was crying. They were the same tears as twenty years ago. They felt the same as they had then, so painful, so raw. She wanted to leave him again. Wanted to walk into the alleyway in her bright white clothes, the color of summer on her arms and neck, translucent in the rain.
“You’re doing it again,” she’d said. “You’re doing it again!”
No! Not him! She was doing it!
He could hardly believe what was happening. History was repeating itself. The rain, the road, the blood, the girl.
“No!” he said. “No, it’s not like that. NOT like that!”
He looked away with a rigid gaze, wiping his face again and again, realized now that this wetness came from him, from his heart, because she was dying now, the one he’d loved. She’d weigh on him like lead from now on, inseparable. Wasn’t that what he’d wanted?
When he dragged her out of the car, she groaned, holding her head, and woke up.
“No,” she said. “No, don’t, please. Don’t leave me here, please, don’t leave me here.”
Now she begged and pleaded, stupid bitch, she tried to cling to him but he shook her off like annoying ballast, rain after the storm. What was life worth?
He pulled away with squealing tires, took off like a rocket, driving for about a hundred yards before hitting the brakes again. The car careened. Me too, he thought, I’ll just die too, life is worthless.
But the car stopped. He wouldn’t die after all. He jumped out and felt the old familiar trembling rising. He pulled one cigarette after another out of the pack. They broke between his fingers. SHIT, SHIT, he thought, you goddamned whore, what have you done to me?!
He saw the car approaching; its harsh noise grew louder. He saw the girl; somehow she’d managed to get up, limping. Don’t put on such an act, he thought, stupid bitch! Just like her mother.
He laughed. What a coincidence; I struck again.
As if she’d heard him, she started to run, into the lights, throwing herself toward them. They picked her up, took her in, and threw her into the air.
But the sky was too high. Too high.
Soundlessly, she fell through the transparent rain.
A high-pitched voice sang in his ears like a memory, and he knew she was dying. He knew she was already dead.
59
He drove home and checked every room in his house. The kids were asleep and his wife, too.
He took a shower, setting the water to seventy degrees. It cooled and calmed him. Then he went into his bedroom, turned the alarm clocks on both sides of the bed back by four hours, pulled the blinds down to shut out the light of dawn, woke his wife, and had sex with her and enjoyed it. He shook his head at himself.
“What time is it?” she asked sleepily as he rolled off her.
“Not that late,” he said, holding one of the clocks up to her face. “Here, look.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I could have sworn . . . Where have you been? All of a sudden you were gone.”
“I met an old college friend at the party, an uncle of one of the students. We went for a drink,” he said. “Just imagine, what a coincidence.”
“I see,” she said. “Well, it must have been pretty exciting for you to come home in this mood.”
She laughed softly and leaned forward to kiss him, but he turned away in disgust.
“Don’t,” he said, trying hard to suppress the retching.
But she noticed, and ran her hand over his chest. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Are you sick?”
“Yes,” he said, jumping out of bed, “I’m suddenly not feeling well. The flu, maybe.”
“Maybe you’ve just had too much to drink,” she said. “I can smell it on your breath.”
He ignored the reproach in her voice and said, “Yes, could be, go back to sleep,” and closed the door.
In the bathroom he vomited, twice, three times, and rinsed out his mouth. He frightened himself when he looked in the mirror. When he went back to the bedroom, she had already gone back to sleep.
He lay awake until morning, until it was time to turn the clocks forward again and pull up the blinds.
60
They walked to the car. It was late, as usual. Dark, even though it was summer. Amazing, Franza thought, where are the days going?
Felix groaned as they got into the car. His intestines were rebelling, or maybe it was his kidneys, his liver, or his discs, something or other that you schlepp around inside you. He made a face, saw Franza’s worried look, and shook his head.
“Are we in a race,” she asked, “to see who can get onto Borger’s table first?” He gave her a long look and tapped his forehead.
They called Arthur on his cell phone. “We’ve got him,” Franza said.
“Yes,” Arthur said, “me too. Reuter.”
“Great!” she said. “Excellent! Do you have an eyewitness statement?”
“Of course!” he said, clicking his tongue.
“Great!” she said again. “We’ll confront him. Find out his address and call us back. We’ll meet there. Good work.”
“Roger that,” Arthur said, happy about the praise. He called the night-shift team at the police station.
“The address for the following name,” he said. “It’s urgent.” He still felt happy as a little boy, racing through town with flashing lights. It had been one of the reasons he wanted to become a policeman.
61
It was hopeless; he knew it. He couldn’t go on like this. His life was slipping away from him. He was OK with that.
On the evening of the third day he decided not to leave the house or go to work anymore. He passed a concerned-looking Karen and went into the bedroom, locked the door, and lost himself in the photos. He spread them all over the bed, the dresser, the floor, everywhere. He ignored Karen’s banging on the door, her demands to sleep in her bed; and he didn’t leave the room again until the morning, when the house was empty and quiet.
The children got on his nerves. Karen did, too, with the dark rings around her eyes. He couldn’t stand her anymore, couldn’t imagine how he’d ever been able to. She didn’t know anything about the dark energy pulsing through his veins and driving him mad.
They were flashing through his mind, Marie, Judith, the child. They were pulsing through his veins.
And him? He wanted to follow the silence.
And? Nothing else.
62
“He won’t be home,” Felix predicted grimly as he rang the doorbell. “They’re never home. And I always know it in advance. I can feel it in my bones, especially today.”
He stretched his back gingerly, waiting for something to crack inside him, but nothing happened.
The door opened within seconds, as if someone had been waiting for the doorbell to ring. On the other side of the door, two young girls looking frightened and silent were huddled up against a woman. Franza immediately thought of Bohrmann’s children and wondered what other tragedies this town still had in store for them.
An elderly couple appeared in the background. At least she wasn’t alone. At least she’d called in support.
It was past ten o’clock now. The sky was dark, but lamps on posts to the left and right of the door lit up the entranceway to the row house.
The family didn’t say anything. They just stared at the detectives.
“Frau Reuter,” Franza said and held out her hand, b
ut it wasn’t taken. “Do you remember us? We were at your school two days ago.”
Karen remained silent.
“We’d like to speak to your husband,” Franza said, hating herself for it. How many times had she been the bearer of bad news? How many times had she been the cause of further tragedies, sometimes more damaging than the initial one? All the times she’d brought pain to houses and apartments, again and again, and it never got easier.
There’d been many times she’d wanted to tell Arthur about it, about the pain that gripped her every time and how it held on longer each time. “Look for something else,” she wanted to say. “Forget about this job. The pain makes you too lonely. But by the time you notice, it’s too late.” But she knew she wouldn’t tell him any of this, just like no one had told her or Felix. He’d find out for himself, just like they had. It was what it was. They were cut from the same cloth; he didn’t have a choice.
“Our son-in-law isn’t home,” Karen’s mother said, stepping up to Karen’s side and putting an arm around her. “Who are you and what do you want from him, anyway?”
They presented their IDs. “Police, Homicide Division,” Felix said and gave their names. “We’re investigating a murder. When do you expect him back?”
“We don’t know,” the mother said coldly. “It’s late. Could you please leave? My daughter’s not feeling well, and the children need to go to bed.”
Franza and Felix shook their heads simultaneously. Funny, thought Arthur, who was standing behind them, how attuned to one another they are. Like an old married couple.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Felix said slowly. “But please, put the children to bed. May we?” He pushed his way past the mother and into the house. Franza and Arthur followed.
The furnishings were tasteful, some modern furniture mixed with old pieces. Art was hanging on the walls. On the dining table in the middle of the room was a pack of cigarettes. Franza and Felix looked at each other, and he nodded. It was the right brand.
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