Chapter 2: Etui
Warning: Gore, PTSD
Charlotte's heels click on the pavement, crisp staccato that echoes in the stillness of the night air.
Her thoughts flutter like disturbed moths around her: I should have been here. He needed you, and where were you, after all? The nightclub.
She stops and wavers. Spots of blood glint on the ground in the yellow lamplight, a trail of hideous breadcrumbs. Ritter quickens her pace.
She tells herself that the fate of Inspector Rath does not matter. She tells herself that she enjoys his company, but that is all.
At the next street lamp, Graf greets her. He holds a camera in place around his neck. His expression, as usual, is anodyne. The photographer could have been taking a stroll through a park instead of walking parallel to a track of human gore.
"It's just ahead." He nods to the beckoning darkness of the street before her.
"He's alive?" Charlotte asks with a sharp intake of breath. She doesn't linger for more than a few seconds to hear Graf's affirmative before continuing.
The crimson spatters become more frequent and thicker, as if a painter furiously shook his brush, aiming for the gutter, and missed.
Passing policemen acknowledge her presence-they've seen her around Rath's office-and continue their conversation. She catches a piece of it before they pass.
"Almost took his head off with that shotgun."
"Did you see the entrails?"
Click click click go her heels.
Why didn't she ask Graf if Gereon was all right, rather than alive? Alive could mean anything. Alive could mean a pulse with a body short on blood, breath with bones broken.
She stumbles upon another cluster of police officers down a darker segment of the street. They circle a body, examining it. Charlotte spies the white cloth covering its form, like a napping ghost. Ritter sees the dark red (nearly black) circle expanding from where its head might have been.
Please, don't be…
"Fraulein Ritter!"
Charlotte claps a hand over her mouth at the sound. Her eyes trace it to-
"Herr Gennat!" She walks to a black automobile where the head of the Homicide Department is leaning against its hood in his undershirt, smoking a cigar, and having his left arm bandaged by a physician.
"Good that you could make it," he says and puffs amiably. "There are some files we found on the suspect that I know you will be interested in. But I am sorry that you missed the show…"
Charlotte swallows on a dry throat. "What happened, sir? Are you all right?"
The big man chuckles, his laughter echoing off buildings in this industrial section of the city.
"I'm fine. No more than a scrape. But it would have been a lot worse if it wasn't for Inspector Rath. I owe my life to him."
Charlotte's heart hums. "Where is he?"
Gennat looks around as if he just noticed that Rath isn't there.
"Was here a moment ago. Maybe he took a walk to have a smoke and cool down." Gennat shoves his thumb to indicate further down the street.
Charlotte nearly curtsies in her gratitude and says hastily, "I'll fetch him."
Click click click click
She sprints lightly, buildings looming on both sides as the street narrows to one way. When her feet carry her to a warehouse, she rounds the corner and nearly trips over her colleague.
"Gereon!"
He lies against the side of a building, legs and arms jutting out at odd angles, shaking from head to foot.
"Are you wounded?" comes her hushed whisper.
He whimpers, eyes wide with terror, but he manages to shift his head from side to side. Not injured.
Charlotte would be relieved if the inspector was talking and upright. She thinks: We have been here before.
Without a sound, she kneels at his side and takes the metal case from his front coat pocket. Then Charlotte breaks two vials of morphine (this is a two-vial situation) and pours the contents of them into Gereon's open mouth.
He swallows greedily, gasping, shadows jumping along his abdomen as his body tremors, like the way club goers shimmy at midnight. Sweat pours down Rath's face, his short hair sticking up in the back.
But he's alive.
A moment later, the whole-body quaking eases, although his hands continue to tremble. His breathing evens from gasping into infrequent wheezes.
She places a hand on the side of his face, whether to soothe him or reassure herself that he's going to be all right, Ritter isn't sure.
Gereon's eyes are still wild, like a cornered animal, but he takes her hand and squeezes it.
His voice is a husk. "Sorry-"
"Cigarette?" she asks before he can get another word out. He declines the offer, but she locates one for herself.
"I...thought I was going to die," Rath says.
She lights her cigarette and inhales. "You're too good of a dancer to die."
He chuckles, which turns into a cough. He rubs a hand across his forehead and seems surprised at the dampness. Perhaps he's not fully back to being himself.
So she grabs his arm and hauls him to his feet. He staggers, groaning, and she props him against the side of the building. Rath isn't difficult to maneuver because he is so svelte. When Charlotte doesn't eat, it's because she doesn't have the money. When Gereon doesn't eat, it's because he forgot or ran out of time.
"Better?" she intones. "Gennat is waiting."
Gereon swallows and weakly nods. In response, Ritter adroitly stoops to pick up Rath's fedora, which must have fallen off during his attack, and places it firmly on his head. She smiles softly.
For a split second, their eyes lock. Charlotte holds her breath, warm and heavy, in her chest.
"I owe you..." he murmurs, and his words are earnest enough to dissolve her heart into a puddle she could skip through.
"...nothing," she finishes for him, breathing out. Charlotte turns away and begins walking down the street, face flushed.
But Gereon catches her hand and holds her in place; their fingers interlace. His palms are warm and steady, pressed into hers.
The moment is near perfection, but Charlotte's guilt prevents her from escaping into it. "I should have been here," she blurts out, avoiding his gaze.
"You are here," he says.
They amble a block or so with hands clasped. When they near the spot where half a dozen police cars are now parked, Charlotte gives Gereon the cigarette she forgot to smoke. A bemused expression crosses his face. She thinks he looks tired yet composed. We will tackle the bags under his eyes at a later date. He's alive-that's the most important thing.
"You went on a smoke break," she explains.
"Thank you," Rath says. He tips his hat to her and takes the cigarette, ringed with her lipstick.
Together, they step into the light of the street lamps. Gennat welcomes them with a cry.
"There you two are! Would you each like a slice of cake?"
TBC
A/N: These characters are so much fun to write. I hope I'm doing them even a tiny bit of justice. Thanks for reading!
~Ista