The Widow Killer (28 page)

His pistol drawn, he looked carefully out the doors the kid had not closed onto the street.

no one, nowhere!

He went out slowly, hiding the weapon under a hat that had fallen off the dead man’s head. He felt relieved when he reached the first cross-street where he could head downhill. The hat he simply tossed aside; it didn’t go with the canvas overcoat of the Werkschutz. A gust of wind blew it alongside him for a while until he changed its direction with a kick. He shoved the pistol into the front pocket of his pants, but it was uncomfortable there, so finally he moved it and the knife to his briefcase (a miracle he hadn’t left it there in the confusion). Now he was trotting along the surprisingly deserted street that linked up with the riverside road below. He was puffing like a steam engine; it was a good thing he heard the car coming.

The squeal of tires racing up around the curves wasn’t a normal sound for this corner of the city. He halted, rooted to the spot, and looked wildly around for cover. There were no passageways between the houses, the garbage cans would not hide him, and it was a good hundred yards to the sparse copse beyond. Once again he improvised. He sauntered off downhill along the sidewalk, suppressing with all his might the ragged heaving of his chest as his lungs gasped for breath.

Suddenly a car loomed up in front of him. He caught sight of three men in civilian garb inside, but the way they roared past betrayed what they were after. He managed to pull out his handkerchief in time and pretended to blow his nose so they wouldn’t see his face, but once again he felt his strength ebbing away.

He was sure this was a huge trap they had laid for him. Today he’d escaped it by a hair, but now they were drawing the net closed and he had no idea how tight it was. The fact that the car hadn’t stopped didn’t mean there weren’t more waiting below, and here he was, caught in this treacherous, craggy defile like a cork in a bottle.

What next?

He certainly couldn’t go back, so he trudged on aimlessly. His evident exhaustion made him as conspicuous as an autumn bumblebee. And as his conviction grew that she had betrayed him, he turned, after years of silence, back to him.

You above all know I was only following her orders. I wanted to improve your kingdom, not destroy it; save me and I swear I will never do it again, and that I’ll serve you as you COMMAND ME TO!

In answer he heard a ringing sound.

The tram terminus lay before him. The empty vehicle’s driver was urging him to hurry.

Morava knew they were in an awful mess, but the first thing he felt was relief: Grete Baumann was at the cemetery today. His Jitka was protected by that very same impenetrable cordon of SS men. How absurd!

He knew he ought to be ashamed of himself, so he tried to feel some of the anguish of the man sitting next to him. It was evident in Buback’s face, and he did not even try to hide it.

They barreled along the embankment; Litera overtook other cars whenever he could. Once Morava could think again, their panic seemed unreasonable. He tried to calm his companion.

“Mr. Buback! It would have to be an awful coincidence for him to strike today of all days.”

The German gave no reaction; his eyes remained fixed on the pavement in front of him, as if concentrating could increase their speed.

“And Sebesta would have gone after her; the three of them were supposed to start their shifts there.”

At this Buback finally nodded weakly and fell silent. He did not move or speak again until Litera veered full speed into the narrow street that led from the tram terminus up to Kavci Hory. The turn threw him across the seat into Morava.

“I know…” he said, and shrank back into his corner.

Morava thought of his recent conversation with Jitka. So he loves her too, he realized; he wouldn’t be so worried about a passing acquaintance. In the end, that wave of fear will join him to her. Jitka will be pleased…

Careening through a short, sparse wood that stretched along the rocky hillsides toward Pankrac, they reentered the city they had barely left. The street here was lined with low buildings; originally temporary workers’ houses from more prosperous times, their term of service had been extended when the Depression hit. The car jolted over the bumpy cobblestones. They passed a solitary pedestrian, plodding down to the tram lines below; just then Morava and Buback had to brace themselves to avoid being thrown together.

They swayed even further around the next curve, when Litera swerved around an item near the edge of the roadway. A hat, Morava thought, surprised; what was it doing there? He instantly put it out of his head as they turned into their street. Then he almost yelped in pain as he felt Buback’s nails dig into his wrist.

Litera was already braking by a large glistening puddle. For a moment all three of them looked at the shards of glass and porcelain, scattered amid the carnations… From me, Morava realized.

They scrambled out of the vehicle.

The chief inspector was unbelievably fast and managed to enter the house first.

It was already clear that the unthinkable, impossible, and inhuman coincidence had come to pass.

A corpse in a checkered suit slumped from the kitchen into the hall. Sebesta’s glassy eyes stared wide at the ceiling.

Morava saw the blood suddenly drain from Buback’s face. Like the priest, he remembered.

Has he lost his second love as well? What a horrible fate!

They stepped over the dead body and were in the kitchen.

Between the door and the table lay Jitka.

Buback put his experience from past German retreats to use. The girl was alive; the wound must have barely missed her heart. They had to get her on the operating table as soon as possible.

While her fiance applied mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, he and Litera removed the sideboard’s narrow door.

Using it as a stretcher they carried her out to the street and gently laid her on the back seat of the vehicle.

The young Czech squeezed himself into the narrow gap next to her, rubbed her pale cheeks, and willed her to live.

Litera drove like a madman again; they made it to General Hospital in under a quarter hour.

As they took Jifka Modra away, Buback allowed himself to stroke her hand. It was warm.

“She’ll live,” he said to the Czech, as if trying to persuade himself as well. “She will live!”

The youth nodded absently and without a word followed the orderlies off.

Buback arranged for Sebesta’s body to be removed. Then Litera drove him back to Bredovska Street. As he got out, he instructed the driver: “Return to the hospital and remain there at Mr. Morava’s disposition. Don’t go back to headquarters yet; they’ll just detain you. I’ll call the superintendent.”

He couldn’t possibly have understood me, Buback realized a bit later, but by then he had already raced into the colonel’s anteroom, stormed past the adjutant there, entered Meckerle’s office, and slammed the door behind him.

The giant sat awkwardly half-hunched in his chair, with a pained expression on his face. At the sight of Buback he practically cringed, as if expecting his subordinate to hit him.

“It’s all right…” he said weakly. “Calm down, man, nothing happened to her.”

“You call that nothing? She’s fighting for her life!”

Meckerle abruptly stood up and winced even more, holding his right hand over his crotch as if he had a terrible pain there.

“Grete… ?”

“Fortunately not! But only because she switched shifts,” Buback shouted into his face. “We had him, he ran right into our trap, except our ambush wasn’t there. As a result, he severely wounded the other woman and killed a policeman. And got away! Who ordered the blockade of the Czech headquarters?”

“I did.”

“And why?”

The colonel was rapidly regaining control; if he had any pain, his anger drowned it out.

“I explained that at the last meeting, and it was clear to everyone, except possibly you. Fuck you and your murderer; you’re not up to the job I gave you!”

“You approved my report.”

“Which blocked the SS special units from doing their job.”

“They won’t find any weapons there unless they plant them. Now we’ve thrown away the advantage of surprise—all for a couple of pistols and rifles that were already registered!”

Meckerle was himself again. Now he’ll let me have it, Buback thought, seeing the familiar crimson vein throbbing at his temple.

“I’m the one who decides what the right time is. And what’s more, I didn’t appreciate your cheek in thanking me for the fish. You’re getting too big for your breeches, Buback. Dismissed! I’ll inform you shortly of your new posting.”

Buback turned and marched out of the room, pressing his lips closed. Any more slips would just hasten his descent. No, Meckerle had not yet formally ousted him from his post. He had a couple of hours left to catch that murderous beast.

Just to be sure, he avoided his office and went straight to the head of dispatching. Bureaucratic inertia got him a jeep on forty-eight-hour loan with an armed soldier at the wheel.

On the way he stopped at home, expecting to find an explanation. Inside he found a note.

“They came here to pick me up; an unexpected special engagement, they say. M. apparently gave them your address. Will stop at J’s, see if she’ll step in. Take care, love. G.”

He turned the page over and wrote on the back side.

“Your nightmare came true. He found her alone and badly wounded her. I’m going after him, I hope. B.”

And then added: “I was horribly afraid it was you!”

Morava held Jitka’s right hand as it lay beside her body. It was still moist and his thumb fearfully tracked the weak, slow pulse in the vein of her wrist.

The surgeon who had operated on her came back and measured her pulse and temperature. He had done what he could, he explained: a pneumothorax and stitches. Her blood was still flowing bright red from the drainage shunts.

Morava finally dared to ask the question that had been torturing him for hours.

“And the child… ?”

“Will survive if she does,” the doctor said, and left.

Was he trying to encourage him or prepare him for the worst?

He drew hope from the expression on her face. Instead of horror, he saw a glimmer of the shy smile that had captured him forever at their first meeting.

Forever?

My beloved, my beloved, stay!

God, how could you do this?

At the end of the platform the abandoned concrete piping seemed to grow out of the bushes rather than vice versa. Sidling up to it, he pretended to be urinating in secret and placed his briefcase inside one of the pipes. He’d risked enough today!

He was the first one here and would have to wait; as usual he read the newspaper. As the front withdrew, the German units had deserted Brno. II Duce Benito Mussolini had been treacherously ambushed by partisans, then shot and hung by his legs from a gasoline pump. From his battle headquarters in Berlin, the Fuhrer and Reich chancellor had commended the members of the Hitlerjugend.

He stared at the picture of the children in their oversized military raincoats: A man with a demented expression was pinning Iron Crosses on them. In his mind, however, he saw other pictures: The eyes of that whore shining with fear, and the surprise of that cop as he ambushed him.

The train picked up speed, clattering down the battered rail ties. The carriages emptied out as Prague receded and filled up again as they approached Plzen. Near Rokycany they braked with a crazed screech. A whistle shattered the air. With detached reserve he watched his fellow travelers rush out of the carriage and across the plowed field to a nearby copse.

He knew that train passengers often died in buzz-bomb attacks, but he remained seated, with his newspaper open. A sudden decision strengthened his will.

i will survive it!

And then i will never fear again!

The airplane motor roared nearby, a machine gun barked, and there was a loud hissing.

Despite this he did not budge, and was richly rewarded: The engineer fooled the attacker by loosing a geyser of steam to indicate they had been hit.

When the passengers returned, they showered the cool-headed reader with admiration. He merely shrugged his shoulders, although inside he was rejoicing.

Once and for all!

At the Plzen train station he finally fell into the clutches of the food inspectors and thankfully could show them empty hands. His worries happily behind him, he was about to jump off the tram at the theater stop when he spotted a long white shape emerging from the side gates.

They’re carrying out the ice!

New passengers pushed him against the rear windows as they boarded; from there he watched his colleagues unnoticed as they lifted the gleaming beams onto the back of a truck.

They sold it themselves!

He couldn’t tell how far they had gotten, but it didn’t matter. There was no way to stop them from finishing the job.

And then they’ll find them!

At first they probably wouldn’t realize what they’d found, but someone would undoubtedly get curious and refuse to leave well enough alone.

And then they’ll find me!

The conductor tugged the bell strap, the tram screeched off, and the theater receded into the distance.

He realized he couldn’t go home either; they might be waiting for him. And he had no one else on this earth except her. His sulk evaporated, and he implored her to help him again.

Where should i go?

The priest managed to disappear from the garden before they arrived, but Buback had sharp eyes. When the housekeeper tried to convince him her brother had not budged from his bed since morning, he pointed at the two small hoes in the half-raked vegetable patch. To make a suitable impression, he had taken the driver with him up to the rectory; the man’s black uniform and accompanying giant pistol had the desired effect. She sat them down in the parlor, and in a few minutes the cleric arrived. He was nervous but seemed even firmer in his conviction than before.

Buback began the attack without delay.

“My young colleague—the Czech fellow I was here with this morning—had a wife, and was expecting a child with her. Three hours ago, she and another person became the latest victims of the murderer you are concealing. Yes, I said ‘concealing’; you can’t deny that you’re personally responsible for what could be three unnecessary deaths. Your Saint Jan Nepomuk kept the secrets of the confessional at his own expense, while you let others pay with their lives. I’m ordering you to reveal everything you know, dispensation or no, about the man who confessed to the Brno murder.”