Ramek’s written words returned to Mason’s mind: Mother watches over our Chosen Ones.
He stuffed the diary into his coat pocket and ran out the door.
• • •
Mason brought the jeep to a screeching halt in front of the railroad shed. Manganella jumped out of the passenger’s seat.
“He’s probably not coming back here for a while, but keep a sharp lookout anyway,” Mason told the corporal. “I’ll be back, or I’ll let headquarters know you’re here.”
“What if Ramek shows up?” Manganella said.
“You’ve got a gun, don’t you?”
Manganella nodded.
“Watch for his scalpel. He goes for the throat.”
Mason raced away, leaving a very nervous Manganella to watch for Ramek’s possible return.
Fifteen minutes later, Mason pulled the jeep up next to the two MPs watching Ramek’s house. He moved for the house and called out to the two startled MPs, “One of you come with me.”
An MP caught up with Mason and they mounted the steps.
“Sir,” the MP said, “I have strict orders not to allow anyone inside.”
Mason pointed out his CID bars and nodded for the MP to unlock the door. “What’s your name, Private?”
“Wilson, Peter, sir.” The MP unlocked the door, then a thought came to him. “Hey, wait a minute.” But Mason had already rushed inside. Private Wilson followed in pursuit. “You’re the one they suspended. Orders came down that we’re supposed to arrest you if you came near this place.”
“I wouldn’t advise it, Private Wilson,” Mason said as he entered the back bedroom. He popped his head back out. “Are you coming?”
Private Wilson came into the room, looking unsure what to do next. Mason lifted the trapdoor and descended the stairs. Wilson followed him down and surveyed his surroundings with a look of horror. “Holy smokes.”
In front of Mason, the man-sized cross hung as before, but the center alcove and the alcoves at the ends of the eight arms were now empty. The jars containing the human organs had been taken to the forensics lab. Mason turned to his right and stepped up to Ramek’s makeshift altar. He groped behind the altar for the light switch. With a click, the lights behind it threw the cross into vivid relief in the dust-laden air. Mason stepped up to the cross and felt all along the edges of every arm. Nothing. He bent slightly to look into the center alcove where the jar containing the heart had once been. There was nothing inside but the opaque glass diffusing the light from the bulb.
Doubt and disappointment welled up. He was sure there was some connection to this oversized cross and Ramek’s diary entries. The heart had to be the key: The cross Mother wore next to her heart.
He reached inside the alcove and pushed on the glass. It fell away easily. The harsh light forced him to shield his eyes, but beyond the bulb he could just make out a small hooked lever. He pulled on the lever. With a loud clank, the wood-framed cross popped open on the right side.
“Holy smokes,” Private Wilson said, and he drifted up to Mason.
Mason pulled on the open edge. The rusted hinges groaned and resisted, but the cross finally swung away. Dirt fell from the edges of the structure, forming a cloud of dust. Both men trained their flashlight beams on a four-foot-high wooden door that had been hidden behind the cross. The door lacked a knob, so Mason tried pushing on it, then putting his shoulder to it, but it refused to move.
“Help me kick it in,” Mason said. “On three.”
With each kick the door cracked, then buckled, and finally disintegrated. A foul stench made them recoil. Covering their noses, they trained their beams into the small, dirt-walled room.
“Sweet mother of Christ,” Private Wilson said. “What is it?”
Mason suppressed a gag and took a step into the room. In the center, mounted on a primitive wooden baptismal cross, was the desiccated body of an elderly woman. Like the other victims, the arms and legs had been severed then attached to the X section of the cross, and the torso had been split open and the organs removed. With one difference: Ramek had sawed open the woman’s skull, then fastened it back in place.
The mystery of the organs and the unaccountable brain in the specimen jars was now solved.
“Who do you think it is?” Private Wilson asked.
Mason trained his flashlight on a framed black-and-white photograph of an elderly woman scowling at the camera. “Ramek’s mother.”
Private Wilson rushed out of the room. While Mason listened to him retch and vomit, he surveyed the rest of the room with his flashlight. On every wall hung framed portraits of Ramek’s mother, all with a dour expression, except one: a much smaller tintype photograph of a young woman standing in front of a carnival backdrop, the only one with her smiling. He stepped closer to get a better look. Something about her looked familiar. . . .
Laura. The young woman looked just like Laura.
“No!”
Mason burst out of the room. “Private, let’s go. Now!” He bounded up the stairs and ran down the hallway. Private Wilson was a few yards behind him. He blew out the front door and ran for the jeep. As he climbed in, he yelled to Private Wilson, “Get all available squads to converge on every church in the city center. The killer is going to one of them.” He jammed the jeep into gear and raced off.
FORTY-EIGHT
Something was wrong.
Ramek had waited all morning for her to emerge from the hotel. She’d broken her routine. She usually left the hotel at 9:15 sharp with two male escorts and walked ten blocks to the offices on Odeonsplatz. The plan was to follow as he had done before. Then, when she felt safe at her work and without the guards, he had planned to make his approach.
There was no way he could have missed her. He had an excellent vantage point: across the street and a few yards down from Maximilianstrasse. Now it was after twelve. How could he have missed the appointed time? He paced in the shadows under the portico of a ruined bank. It felt as if some other being would explode from his body. The force of it pushed against his skin. His skull ached from the pressure.
This was punishment. He knew it. Doubt threatened to triumph over his resolve. The woman who looked like his mother could be an illusion. Perhaps it was a trick devised by the American policeman. After all, he had first seen her with him. This hunt should have been a holy undertaking, a divine act, but now he felt only a burning lust to violate her, to hear her screams, watch her blood rush from gaping incisions, hear the crack of her ribs, exposing her beating heart. God, he would fuck her limbless corpse!
No! Stop!
He bit deep into the meaty part of his hand, taking away a piece of flesh. The pain, the taste of blood, calmed him. He would need all his clarity and wit to abduct a woman in daylight and on a busy street.
How much longer would he have to wait? It must be done, and it had to be now. Now only hours separated his need. The urges were constant, the ache in his groin more acute. This must be the ultimate beatification, for every step had led him to this point. It must be realized, then he would be free to ascend, free of his sins, no longer plagued by the tormenting voices.
Peace will come.
A black sedan pulled up in front of the hotel. Ramek stepped deeper into the shadows and watched. Laura McKinnon’s two escorts got out of the sedan.
She was taking a car. He had to think fast. All his careful planning was now useless. The new situation demanded he improvise. He pulled off his long blue overcoat. Underneath he wore his Munich police uniform. Suddenly he noticed the blood. The previous night’s scalpel wound had seeped through the bandage and stained his uniform. His hand streamed with blood from the bite wound and had left a large streak across his chest. That gave him an idea. He could use it. He smeared more blood across the uniform, then exchanged his homburg hat for a policeman’s cap, took a deep breath, and stepped onto the sidewalk.
There she was, exiting the hotel and . . . carrying a suitcase? She was leaving. It truly was now or never.
Ramek broke into a run, dodging a wagon loaded with rubble. He assumed a servile posture and an expression of alarm. The blood would magnify the urgency. He waved his hands above his head. “Fräulein McKinnon!”
The woman stopped at the base of the steps and looked at his bloodstained uniform with dismay. Ramek ran up. The two escorts flanked her protectively. Ramek stopped at a respectable distance, breathing hard, as if he’d run for his life.
“Fräulein McKinnon?” When she acknowledged him, he said in German, “I have some grave news. Investigator Collins has been seriously injured.”
Laura put her hands to her mouth. “What? Where?”
“He was chasing the murderer into a building, but the building collapsed on him.”
One of the escorts asked, “Is he being treated? Is he in the hospital?”
“It just happened. My comrades are notifying the American military police and medical services.” He turned to Laura. “He is asking for you. I’m afraid he won’t survive. It is very serious.”
Tears welled up in Laura’s eyes, but she gritted her teeth to control it.
The escort looked suspiciously at Ramek. “How did you know to come here?”
“Herr Oberinspektor Becker is with him. The inspector works with Investigator Collins, and he told me to come here. He dispatched other officers to her place of work and to search along the streets she uses regularly.”
“It’s okay, Ben,” Laura said. “Where are they?” she asked Ramek. “What’s the address?”
“I can show you the quickest route. A small street near Saint Michael’s Church.”
The escorts hesitated, but Laura was already getting in the backseat of the car. “Come on, you two. Officer, get in front and direct us.”
Ben left the suitcase with one of the hotel’s MP guards, then returned to the car and eyed Ramek before getting behind the wheel. As Ramek stood at the open car door, a shiver coursed through his body. He dug his fingernails into the wound on his hand to suppress another wave. With one last shudder of anticipation, he took the front passenger seat.
“Straight down Maximilianstrasse, then left on Alter Hof,” Ramek said to Ben. “Please hurry, sir. There isn’t much time.”
Ben hit the accelerator and sped down the street. He threw Ramek a handkerchief for his hand. Ramek wrapped the handkerchief around the wound and squeezed tightly.
“Where is Investigator Collins hurt?” Laura asked.
“A wall collapsed, crushing his chest.”
“Oh, my God.” She bit on her nails to stifle her crying.
Ben followed Ramek’s instructions, weaving through a series of small streets. The pain in Ramek’s hand could no longer distract him. He turned to the window and took deep breaths. His body shivered just once. Then he noticed Ben eyeing him with suspicion.
“The shock, you see?” Ramek said.
Ben just grunted and started to turn right at Marienplatz, but Ramek saw that MPs had erected a roadblock to check IDs.
“No, not here.” Ramek realized he’d said it too loudly. “It is blocked by excavation and a steam shovel.” He directed Ben to take a small street going south and away from Saint Michael’s. Ruined office buildings bordered both sides of the street, and only a few pedestrians walked in this somber part of the city.
Ramek looked back at Laura and caught her staring at him.
“You work with Inspector Becker?” Laura asked in English.
“Ja. Herr Oberinspektor Becker.”
“I met him only once just briefly. I wonder how he would know the streets I use regularly or where I worked.”
Ben looked at Ramek with alarm, his suspicions proved right.
Ramek braced himself and, with his left leg, stamped on the brake pedal. Laura and the escorts were flung forward. Ramek pulled out Ben’s .45 pistol from its holster and shot Ben in the head. Laura screamed as Ramek spun in his seat and shot the other escort twice in the chest. Laura sank into her seat when he aimed the pistol at her, huddling as if waiting for the impact of bullets.
While maintaining his aim, Ramek unlatched his door with his other hand. In English, he said, “Get out slowly. You try to run, I will shoot you.”
“You’re Dr. Ramek, aren’t you?”
Ramek put one leg out of the car. “Remember. Very slowly.”
Laura opened her door. Ramek rolled out of the car as quickly as he could, but being that tall in a cramped car, it took too long.
Laura dashed out of the car and ran for a burned-out office building. Ramek rushed to the back of the car and aimed, but he couldn’t pull the trigger. It couldn’t end this way. She had been chosen. To shoot her would mean failure. He had to take her alive, and only shoot her if he had no other choice.
With a growl, he sprinted after her.
FORTY-NINE
Mason slammed on the brakes in front of Laura’s hotel, jumped out, and ran for the door. One of the MPs guarding the hotel called out to him as he bounded up the front steps.
“Mr. Collins?” he said with confusion in his eyes. “I thought a building had just collapsed on you.”
Mason stopped just before charging through the hotel’s front door. “What did you say?”
“A German cop said so. He ran up to Miss McKinnon and said you were seriously injured chasing the killer when a building collapsed on you. Miss McKinnon, her bodyguards, and the German cop all got in a car and took off to find you.”
Mason tried to make sense of it. It took only a few seconds to figure it out. “Where are they headed?”
“The German cop said something about Saint Michael’s Church.”
Mason could hardly get it all out: “It’s Ramek. Ramek’s the German cop.” He shot down the steps.
“They headed west on Maximilianstrasse,” the MP said.
As Mason ran up to the jeep, he called back to the MP, “Call headquarters and tell them that Ramek is at Saint Michael’s Church.”
Maximilianstrasse was a wide boulevard, but it narrowed after only four blocks at Max-Joseph-Platz then ended and split off into three smaller streets. Mason stopped the jeep at the intersection. He was in the old city center, where the tangle of streets still followed the random layout from its medieval past. He had to choose. Ramek could have led them anywhere, dumped the escorts, and subdued Laura. There was no guarantee Ramek intended to go directly to the church. He usually held on to his captives, possibly torturing them before the final butchering. Mason’s only option was to head for Saint Michael’s and search the surrounding area. The MP at the hotel and Private Wilson at Ramek’s house had called headquarters by now, so help would be on the way.
Mason hit the accelerator and took Weinstrasse, the most direct way he knew of to get to Saint Michael’s. He turned right on Kaufingerstrasse, the main street leading to the church. Streams of pedestrians, cyclists, trolleys, and wagons impeded his path. After passing the Frauenkirche he saw the MP roadblock. He made a hard left, betting that Ramek would have wanted to avoid the roadblock and guided the driver somewhere into this maze of small streets.
At Färbergraben he made a right. That brought him to a narrow street running parallel to Saint Michael’s. He looked to his right and caught a glimpse of Saint Michael’s beyond the piles of brick and stone.
Now where?
He slammed on the brakes. Two women stood in the middle of the street, waving their arms at him.
“Get out of the way!”
One woman ran up to his jeep, while the other still blocked the road.
“Lady, I have an emergency,” Mason said.
“Please. Come quick. Two Americans have been shot.”
“Where?”
The woman pointed to a street up ahead and to his r
ight. “They are in a car.”
Mason ran into the street the woman had pointed out. A hundred feet down the street, Mason ran up to the black sedan and immediately recognized Laura’s escorts. He could tell right away they were dead. “Did you see a woman with a tall German policeman?”
“We only saw a German policeman run into that building.” The woman pointed to the eight-story office building next to the passenger’s side of the sedan. The building still stood but was nothing but a shell. The two flanking buildings had collapsed in on themselves, making the entire area extremely unstable.
Mason slipped inside the building through the opening where a revolving door had once been. He found himself in a lobby with smoke-stained marble, charred wood paneling, and fallen plaster. A few light fixtures hung by threads. A black sludge from the mix of ash and water covered every surface and excreted an acrid odor.
Fifty feet ahead of him, the entire center of the building had fallen in. Every floor, from the roof to the lobby, had crashed into the floor below. Mason eased up to the edge of the hole and saw that it continued on to the basement. He surveyed the exposed floors above. Nothing moved.
From somewhere above came the sound of running footsteps on rubble.
He had to choose: try stealth, hoping to surprise Ramek, or, in case Laura was still trying to evade Ramek, let her know that help was near. . . .
“Laura!” Mason spun around, looking for a way up. Just off to his right, a staircase. He ran up one flight of stairs.
The sound came again, from higher up. Laura hadn’t responded to his call. That could only mean that Ramek was close to her and she was afraid to give away her position.
Mason continued up the staircase. With each successive floor he encountered more destruction, more charred walls and office furniture. Each floor had the same gaping hole, and it was spanned by wood beams set down by search-and-rescuers who’d had the grim task of removing the dead.
Ruins of War Page 35