by Layton Green
“It gives the room just the right accent,” Viktor said drily. He wasn’t quite sure what van Draker’s game was, but one thing was certain: Jans wasn’t intimidated by the presence of either Viktor or Sergeant Linde.
Shambling along with his shaky gait, Kristof led them on a tour of the high-ceilinged, two-story manor. Van Draker calmly sipped his tea as they walked, and Viktor noticed Sergeant Linde absorbing every detail.
This was no simple sweep, he realized with a start. She wanted this to happen.
But why? Was it all an act?
Whose side was she on?
The layout of the house was much more confusing than it appeared from the outside. Instead of the wide hallways and simple linear structure Viktor had expected, the mansion abounded with shortened corridors, staircases in unexpected places, and irregularly-shaped rooms. Though tidy and free of cobwebs, aristocratic furnishings from centuries past filled the manor, heavy velvet drapes and faded rugs and antique chairs. Family portraits lined the hallways, most of the van Draker clan dressed in hunting clothes or military attire. The manor also possessed a gloom, a pallor that went beyond the lack of natural light. As if the collective spirits of the Cape settlers depicted in the photos, lives steeped in violence and war and subjugation, had congealed inside the house.
Where was the science? Viktor wondered. The evidence of Jans’s profession? Except for a few medical journals on the nightstand, Viktor saw nothing that spoke of a man accused of performing surgeries on the cutting edge of technology.
In the library, an amber-hued room stuffed with leather armchairs and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, Kristof’s eyes flicked to a particular shelf in the rear left corner.
Was the glance indicative of an important book, Viktor wondered? A lever to a secret passage?
When they left the room, the professor took the opportunity to move next to Kristof. The butler’s skin looked even worse from up close, ashen and plasticine. Almost artificial. The only odor emanating from the man was a cheap, overpowering cologne that smelled more like disinfectant than a fragrance.
Another incongruity was that most of the bedrooms on the second story—Viktor counted eight—looked recently occupied. Rumpled bed spreads and streaks on the mirrors. Papers in the wastebasket. The doctor apologized with a wave, explaining Kristof did not clean the upper story very often.
But Viktor wondered.
They heard no more screams and saw no one else in the manor. From the maze-like design of the architecture, it was impossible to tell if they had searched the entire house, though van Draker accommodated every request to enter a room or try a new staircase or corridor.
As they entered a lushly carpeted billiards parlor at the end of a first floor hallway, van Draker opened a palm towards Viktor. “As promised.”
A legion of mounted animal heads, so well-preserved they looked alive, hung from the paneled walls of the room. The taxidermy presented a startling variety of species: rhino, wild boar, all the big cats. He saw the exquisite gerenuk their host had mentioned, a sable-toned antelope with an elongated neck and legs. Viktor looked closer and noticed the creature’s bizarre single horn was in fact two horns fused together above the scalp.
Viktor stepped to a pair of French doors overlooking a family cemetery. A ways past that was a low-lying outbuilding made of stacked stone, perhaps a wine cellar. Too far away for the scream they had heard.
Van Draker folded his arms. “I’m afraid the tour is finished. You’ve seen the entire house.”
“Is there a basement?” Naomi asked.
“In a house this old, the proper term would be dungeon. Thank God we don’t have one. We can barely manage the upkeep as it is.”
“Then I suppose,” the sergeant said, “I’ve seen enough.”
Van Draker turned to Viktor. “What do you think of my taxidermy?”
“As impressive as you said. I’m wondering, though, about a different collection.”
“Oh?”
Viktor stepped aside, revealing a section of the wall covered with horrific framed photos displaying groups of people, many of them children, so emaciated that Viktor could count the ribs. More living skeletons than human beings, they lay listless in hospital beds or slumped in piles at the base of barbwire fences. Viktor had seen countless photos like these before, though usually in the somber halls of holocaust museums.
“More remembrances from the past?” Viktor asked.
“Ya,” van Draker said. “Concentration camps, you must be thinking? World War II, the Germans? An evil the world had never before witnessed?”
Viktor noticed Sergeant Linde staring at the floor.
“You’re correct,” van Draker said softly, “except the Germans are not to blame. Those are my people in those photos. Stuffed into camps like garbage by the British, during the second Boer war. Hitler was far too banal to have invented such a thing,” he said bitterly. “The British made him the man he was.”
Though Viktor was no longer surprised by the cruelty of his fellow man, he had not known that particular piece of history.
Van Draker began to pace in agitation. “At least the Germans killed for ideology. The British killed for pure profit.”
“Ideology?” Viktor said. “Is that what you would call it?”
“Wasn’t it? Personal preferences aside? What would you term it, professor?”
“Mass disgrace stemming from the Treaty of Versailles, a bout of collective insanity, and the conditioning of a vulnerable and dangerously nationalistic public by a once-in-a-generation leader gifted with the sort of charisma that panders to the lowest common denominator.”
Van Draker flung his hands at the photos. “Savagery. Pure savagery.”
“Then why display them?”
“Glossing over the past merely dooms us to repeat our mistakes.”
Viktor knew it was more than that. Though the professor did not disagree with the sentiment, there was a time and a place for certain things, and the casual displays of barbarism scattered throughout the house screamed more to the monster lying beneath the surface than a warning about the pitfalls of ignoring history.
On their way out, van Draker all but ignored Sergeant Linde, and gave Viktor’s hand a hearty shake. “I enjoyed meeting you, professor. You should return for tea one day. I sense we’d have much to discuss. Both of us, I suspect, enjoy pondering the mysteries of our strange and glorious universe.”
“I look forward to it,” Viktor murmured, with a final glance at the clam-colored face of the butler.
On the drive back to the police station, dusk wormed its way into the sky, throwing purple shadows against the mountains. “I’ve met Kristof at least three times before,” Naomi said, looking straight ahead as she spoke.
Viktor cocked his head. “He acted as if he’d never met you.”
“He had a massive heart attack a while back, in a local café. After he stabilized, van Draker drove him to his preferred hospital in Cape Town. When Kristof never appeared in town again—he ate breakfast every day at that same café—everyone assumed he had returned to his family’s homestead in the Eastern Cape. Either to recover by the sea or in a casket.”
“Why did everyone have to assume? No one asked van Draker?”
“He never mingles with the masses. Kristof was standoffish, too. He was often seen around but didn’t have any friends. At least not in town.”
“When did this happen?”
Naomi glanced at Viktor. “Six years ago.”
Viktor felt as if the night chill had seeped through the windshield and wormed its way underneath his suit coat. “How many white butlers are there in South Africa?”
“More than you might think. Some of the hard-line families refuse to have a ‘colored’ in their home.”
“In my estimation,” Viktor said after a moment, “the scream in that house was not feline.”
“No.”
“It possessed a muffled ring. Perhaps coming from underneath a sheet or a blanket.
Or through the walls of a basement.”
“He said there was no basement.”
“There’s always a basement.”
Naomi gave him a sideways look, as if once again wondering what sort of professor she was dealing with.
“I believe there are parts of the house we did not see,” Viktor said, “and I’m convinced of van Draker’s involvement in the matter. We need a closer look. One without the master of the house present.”
“What do you propose?”
“What are the odds of a search warrant?”
“Without evidence, nil. I don’t think you understand. He owns this town.”
“Then we start with a stakeout. At night. Observe the comings and goings.”
They pulled into the station, and she let the engine idle in the parking lot, tapping her fingers on the gearshift as if weighing not just the decision, but whether or not to work with Viktor. “When do you propose we go?”
“He’ll be wary after our conversation, on the lookout for my involvement.”
“Agreed.”
“But he might not expect us tonight.”
-15-
NEW YORK CITY
“Hey kid.”
Charlie emerged from the alley and turned towards the sound of the voice. To her left, a few feet down the street, a burly white man in jeans, a Yankees skullcap, and a creased leather jacket beckoned to her from beside a van with no rear windows.
The man held up a fistful of cash. “Want to make a few bucks? I’ve got a job for you. Legit. Easy money.”
Charlie glanced both ways down the street. No one else in sight.
She had wandered down to East Harlem earlier that day, plying her cup-and-golf balls routine at a street festival known for drawing kids and fresh-faced tourists. Not kids like her, but kids with parents and real bedrooms and money to spend. The golf ball trick was her latest sleight of hand scheme. So far it had worked like gangbusters, whatever that meant. She had earned twenty dollars, enough to buy a few meals at McDonald’s.
But she wasn’t about to spend that money on the subway, and the long day in Harlem meant the buses had stopped and she had to risk the streets going home. She was working her way over to Broadway, the safest route back to Washington Heights, but at the moment she was in No-Man’s Land, sticking to the shadows and praying no one from a gang caught sight of her.
Though right now, it wasn’t a gang member that had her worried. A large white man standing beside a van near a deserted alley in Harlem, thrusting cash her way?
Never a good thing.
“Come on,” he said, taking a step towards the mouth of the alley, misreading her hesitation for indecision. “Like I said, easy money.”
Charlie wasn’t confused. She was deciding which way to run.
The muscles bulging at the sleeves of the man’s jacket and his testosterone-laced baritone reminded Charlie of her seventh-grade gym teacher. She hadn’t trusted him, either, even before he got her best friend pregnant. But this goon with the smashed face and combat boots was worse. His eyes hadn’t left her face for one moment, which meant he wasn’t interested in sex and was watching in case she ran.
Nope. She wasn’t buying it. No one, especially no whitey, was stupid enough to encroach on drug territory in East Harlem—the only reason she could fathom that someone might want to pay her to do something.
Stupid girl, she berated herself. She should have ponied up and spent a few bucks on the subway. Palms slick with sweat, she took a step back on the sidewalk, her heels butting against the edge of the curb. The man moved closer, a lopsided grin creeping onto his face.
Charlie turned and ran.
Back into the alley, away from the light. Into the gaping maw of the city.
The man cursed, shouted for someone named Jared, and pounded the pavement behind her. She heard a sliding van door screech open.
The man almost caught her before she reached the end of the alley. She scrambled to her left, turned over a trashcan, and turned left again, into another alley. He was faster than she was on the straightaways, but she was more nimble. Unfortunately, this part of the city was not a maze of small streets and alleys like Soho or the Village. Her best bet was reaching the intersection of MLK and Malcolm X Boulevard, less than five blocks away. A busy area known as White Castle because it was one of the few areas of Harlem with big box stores and white people.
She could disappear there. Slip into a corner store or the subway. And if the men chasing her were crazy enough to grab her in public, the cops or the local thugs would take care of them.
She glanced back. He was twenty feet behind her and breathing hard as he ran, fists balled. Another man was right behind him, carrying some type of black garment.
What the hell is that? Charlie thought in a panic. Who are these people?
Just before she reached the end of the alley, her pulse spiked further when a third man stepped into view. Dressed similar to the first man but wearing a Mets hoodie instead of a skullcap, he clutched a set of car keys in one hand and a handgun in the other.
The gun was pointed down, at the ground. He pocketed the keys and held out a hand as she ran towards him. “C’mon,” he said, “we just want to talk.”
Charlie slowed.
He smiled. “I promise.”
She nodded and heard the other two closing in behind her. She kept walking towards the third man, hands up, a look of defeat on her face. “Yeah?” she said. “What do you want?”
As he opened his mouth to respond, she kicked him in the groin as hard as she could, curling her toes as Grey had taught her, trying to catch the testicles. The man bellowed and dropped to the ground. Charlie sprinted past him, sticking to the darkest part of the street. She weaved as she ran, also as Grey had taught her, in case someone shot at her from behind.
No shots came. She didn’t think any would. A gunshot would alert every cop and gangbanger in a three-mile radius, and whatever these men were up to, they sure as hell didn’t want company.
Charlie ran like she never had before, knowing her life was at stake, attuned to the labored breaths of the men behind her, all too aware of the silence in the streets. A window opened and Charlie screamed for help, only to catch a glimpse of an old woman in a nightgown right before she slammed the glass shut.
Somewhere behind Charlie, an engine rumbled to life. A glance back told her it was the van. Two of the men were right behind her. She ran in a dead sprint, her breath rasping like sandpaper across rough wood. Nostrils flared as she sucked in oxygen, and behind the street garbage she caught the distant smell of barbecued chicken. A desperate hiccup of laughter escaped her. For a split-second, her hunger had almost overpowered her fear.
Malcolm X was too far. She wasn’t going to make it. As the tires of the van squealed behind her, Charlie veered to her left, darting across a parking lot and through a nest of prickly bushes that tore at her skin. She leapt onto an iron fence and scrambled up it, aiming to disappear into the fortress-like housing complex on the other side.
Voices emanated from a nearby courtyard. As dangerous as those voices might be, they couldn’t belong to anyone worse than the men chasing her.
It was an eight-foot spiked fence. She jumped and clutched the horizontal bar near the top, scrambling to pull herself up, prepared to twist, flail, fling her body over the fence. Whatever it took.
Muscles quivering, she got a foot on the bar. Just before she pulled her other foot up and tumbled over, a hand grabbed her by the ankle.
“Get off me!” she screamed, lashing out with her leg. The grip held. She swung her other leg down and tried to kick her attacker in the face. The man in the Yankees skullcap caught her leg in midair and yanked her off the fence. After wrapping her in his arms from behind, he dragged her towards the street, towards the idling van.
Her panic spiked and then settled. She forced herself to concentrate. Bear hug from behind. I know this escape. I can do this. Charlie stomped on top of the man’s foot at the sam
e time she bucked her hips and tried to create distance.
Neither move worked. The top of his boot felt like iron, and he was simply too powerful. She knew if she had Grey’s technique and training she could pull it off, but she didn’t. In desperation, she leaned her head back and tried to bite the man’s shoulder. He slammed her to the ground, dazing her, then gripped her by the upper arms so hard she moaned in pain.
Arms straight in front of him to keep her from biting him again, he half-pushed, half-carried Charlie towards the open rear doors of the van. Another man handcuffed her and tied a hood over her face, then shoved her inside.
-16-
Viktor’s bones and joints creaked as he waded through the morass of old-growth grapevines gone to seed. Swathed in darkness, he and Naomi had entered the grounds of van Draker’s estate via an old game trail that wound through the forest on the southwest side of the manor. After helping each other struggle over the old stone wall, Sergeant Linde managing much better than the professor, they scurried down what remained of the dirt paths separating the rows of gnarled trunks. A canopy of vines masked their progress, though at times they had to cut their way through with a pair of garden shears Naomi had brought.
Viktor grunted as he stooped underneath a chest-high cluster of branches. “My partner,” he whispered, “is much better suited to this.”
“Your partner?”
“A good man,” Viktor said, as he caught his breath, “who battles some demons.”
“Don’t we all,” she murmured.
“He recently suffered a loss. A tragic one.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, and when Viktor glanced over, he could tell that she meant it.
A moldy, sickly sweet odor permeated the air. They stopped moving a few minutes later, safely ensconced within a dome of vines. Viktor had the sudden worry a dog could sniff them out, though they had seen no evidence of an animal.
Why the lax security, he wondered, if the doctor had something to hide? Were they following a false trail after all?
As the night deepened to expose a mature canopy of stars, Viktor checked his watch. Ten past midnight. He was facing the tower and, in the darkness, he could just make out the manor grounds with the naked eye. No visible lights except for a wrought-iron gas lamp by the front door. To his left, past a stretch of lawn sprinkled with avocado trees, the stippled tops of the cemetery glowered in the moonlight.