Chapter Fourteen
Ahiru was running, not caring where or how far, just as long as she kept going. The buildings of the industrial park flew past her line of vision. Her thoughts were an anguished, furious whirl to keep pace with her feet.
Fakir had been right there! She had seen him getting up and he had been wiping blood from his mouth. He was hurt! He was hurt and she had wanted to go to him, to make sure he was okay, to get him away from the terrible gang.
But it had all been in vain. Now he was gone again, taken by those horrible people, and who knew when they would find him another time. Who knew how badly he would be hurt another time!
She blinked back the tears, but they kept coming. He had been so close, so close.
And Autor. . . .
She slowed to a walk and then an outright halt. Autor had said she had not seen the van and it had been moving right towards her. If that were true, then it probably really would not have stopped for her, not when it had been full of so many terrible guys. What was one more body to add to the count they probably already had?
Autor had saved her life. And how had she repaid him? By screaming at him and asking what kind of friend he was. She flinched, her eyes widening in dismay. The way Autor had looked then would never stop haunting her.
It was her own fault that they had not been able to save Fakir. She had been stupid and thoughtless and had run right into the path of the van. If she had not done that, maybe Fakir would be with them right now.
Why did she have to keep being rescued on this case? It was because she had been held at gunpoint that Fakir had gone with the gang in the first place. And then the gang had done the same thing to force Fakir and Autor into that fateful fight. And now they could have got Fakir back, but she had ruined it by not paying attention to where she was going.
She looked back in the direction she had come from. There was no sign of Autor.
She had to find him. She had to tell him how sorry she was, even though it would never be enough. How could anything really be enough? She had said the most horrible thing possible to the one least deserving of all.
She turned, trudging back up the street. She looked from the left to the right and straight ahead as she went, both not wanting to get into any more near-accidents and hoping to see Autor somewhere.
It was some time before she heard the faint sound of voices on the air. She blinked, pausing to listen. She recognized them both, she was sure of it. It was Autor and Charon! She ran again, her braid thumping against her back.
The braid Autor had fixed for her earlier that day. She had been distressed over her dream and he had calmed her. It was strange, how the boys she was involved with could alternately frustrate her to no end and soothe her mind.
She slowed and then stopped when she drew close enough to overhear Autor and Charon's conversation. They sounded so serious; she did not want to barge in on them. So instead she lingered, listening to what was being said without really meaning to eavesdrop. But what Autor was telling Charon was heartbreaking and stunning.
Disbelieving tears filled her eyes. She had snapped at Autor out of stress and despair. But even though she had realized that he had saved her life, she had stayed angry that he had not let her run into the fray after Fakir. Back then, she had known somewhere in her heart that he was upset and hurt, but she had never imagined it could be to this extent. Even after she had calmed down and saw things more clearly, she had not fully comprehended the truth she was witnessing now.
She had absolutely crushed him. And still he was putting the blame on himself. He was not angry with her at all. All she wanted was to run to him and tell him she was sorry and try to comfort him.
But maybe that was something that needed to wait. Charon seemed to be doing a good job right now. She did not want to go in at the wrong time and disrupt it.
"I'm sorry, Autor," she whispered as she turned away to stay outside hearing range of the conversation. "I'm horrible. I'm so horrible!"
She waited in the shadows until she saw them coming at last. Autor had tried to pull himself together, but his eyes still looked red. Charon walked alongside him, somber and silent. When they saw Ahiru standing there, both looked surprised. Autor seemed to tense.
Before either could speak Ahiru ran forward to Autor. "Autor, I'm so sorry," she said, her voice cracking. "I should never have snapped at you and stayed mad at you. I know you were just trying to protect me."
"Not only you," Autor said quietly, "but Fakir. Heaven knows what would have happened if he had seen the van strike you down."
"You saved my life," Ahiru choked out. "I'm just awful! I couldn't feel closer to you if we were really related, but I treated you like you don't mean anything to me. And you still feel bad about the argument with Fakir and then I had to go get mad too. I don't even deserve to be forgiven!"
"There's nothing to forgive," Autor returned. He sounded tired and sad. "This misadventure is taking its toll on all of us. You were hurting. And . . . I suppose Fakir was as well, when he lost his temper with me."
"We both hurt you," Ahiru sniffled. "I never wanted to hurt you. I'm sure he didn't, either."
"I guess not. But it's alright."
Ahiru stared at him. "I was so mean and you're just letting it go like that?" she exclaimed.
"I don't even blame you, Ahiru," Autor said. "I blame myself for not preventing you from getting out of the car in the first place. Of course your only thought would be to get to Fakir. You were blind to all else. If I had been able to help you save him before, none of this would have happened."
"Oh Autor!" Ahiru's heart broke. "Charon's been right all along; we didn't really know what we were getting into. We couldn't have gone against the gang then. And I shouldn't have gotten out of the car tonight. I should have waited a few more minutes and we all could have got out."
"It still would have been too late," Charon interjected. "They were acting too fast. We could not have saved Fakir tonight, even if this hadn't happened."
Ahiru looked to him, biting her lip. Maybe that was true. Maybe she would be able to believe it sometime. Right now she was still berating herself. And she doubted she would ever forgive herself for what she had yelled at Autor.
"And you were hit by those horses back home," she remembered, turning back to Autor. "When you jumped out to save me, you could have been hit by the van." She trembled. "I didn't even think about that until just now."
Autor looked at her in surprise. "I don't think I did either," he admitted. "When I saw you in danger, I didn't take time to think. I just grabbed you."
Ahiru sadly nodded. "Autor . . ." She hesitated. "I saw you with Charon before you came out."
Autor stared at her. "What?" he gasped.
She looked down, guilt in her eyes. "I saw you crying. I didn't mean to, but I saw it."
Autor stiffened. "It was just a short lapse of control," he said. "I didn't want you to see it or even know about it."
"Yeah, I know." Ahiru looked at him again. "I didn't even know if anything could make you cry. I really didn't know it would be me!"
"Ahiru, it wasn't you," Autor said. "I suppose it's been building for some time now. Finally it just came out."
"After I acted awful. I was the last straw!" Ahiru exclaimed.
Autor found he could not deny that. But the last thing he wanted was to make Ahiru feel even worse than she did right now. He averted his gaze.
"If our positions had been reversed, I would have been angry also," he said. "You were right about what you said before, Ahiru—about words said in anger not always being meant."
"Then you know I didn't mean it?" Ahiru's voice was plaintive.
Now Autor hesitated. In his own despair and anguish, he had believed she had meant it. But now that he had calmed himself and could see more clearly, he did not see how she really could have.
Ahiru stepped forward in desperation, taking Autor's silence to mean the worst. "You're my brother, Autor!" she wailed. "I couldn't mean it. I couldn't!"
Autor started out of his reverie. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I know you couldn't have meant it. You . . . you've always told me I've been a good friend. And we've come through too much together to throw it aside because of this." He shook his head. "If I had been thinking of it after Fakir lost his temper with me, that's what I should have said to him."
"I . . . I guess . . . it's hard to think about things when you're feeling really hurt," Ahiru said. "Fakir was hurt, and you were hurt, and I was hurt tonight, and then you were hurt again. . . ."
She shuddered. "Fakir told me the reason he got so mad was because he couldn't understand why you knew about the jewelry store thing and he didn't. He wondered if he'd done something wrong so I didn't want to tell him. If I'd told him in the first place instead of trying to make it a surprise . . . !" She trailed off.
"Ifs aren't going to change what is," Autor said. "Although I've certainly been thinking of my share of them lately."
He sighed. "Ahiru, let's put this behind us," he said. "Apologies have been made and we should move on. We have to focus on finding Fakir. And keeping up our strength so we can do it."
Ahiru gave a sad nod. "You're right, Autor." She tried to smile. "I'm glad you still want to be friends."
"I'm glad you feel the same," Autor said. "During the time I . . ." He cleared his throat. ". . . I was having the breakdown, I wasn't sure that you would ever forgive me for tackling you away from Fakir."
"The van would've made sure I never got to him." Ahiru smiled more. "You've made sure that one day, I will."
Autor finally smiled as well.
"So . . . what do we do now?" Ahiru wondered.
Autor drew a shuddering breath. "We start again," he said. "That's all we can do."
Ahiru took his hand in hers. "And we'll find Fakir and get him back," she said. "We have to."
The traces of a smile came back over Autor's features. "I pray we will," he said.
"I'm sure it'll be answered Yes!" Ahiru said.
Watching them, Charon smiled too. Everything would be alright between them. And now that they had repaired their friendship, they both looked visibly happier.
He laid his hands on their shoulders. "Let's go," he said. "Tomorrow we'll start looking again."
They looked up at him.
"Why not tonight?" Ahiru asked.
Charon sighed. "The police need to get statements from both of you about what happened," he said, clearly hating to put this burden on them. "They need the information as soon as possible."
"I expected as much," Autor said. "What's their view on the case so far?"
"They're treating Fakir as a kidnap victim, as well they should," Charon said. "He didn't help with the robbery and was apparently under the watch of an armed thug."
A relieved smile spread over Ahiru's features. "He didn't help?" she exclaimed.
Charon shook his head. "They probably wanted him on hand in case something went wrong," he said. "But when something did go wrong he defied them." He smiled as he began to guide them towards the car. "He saved a man's life."
"I'm so glad!" Ahiru declared. But then she stopped, worried.
"When I saw him, he looked like he was bleeding," she said. "Does anyone know if he was hurt bad?"
Charon's jaw set. "They don't know," he said.
He was afraid Fakir would be hurt badly, if he had not been already. Ambrosius had confided in Charon that when he had not wanted to go through with Story-Spinning for the robberies, he had been beaten, sometimes severely. But that was not something Charon wanted to tell the teens now, especially when they were both still smarting over not being able to get Fakir back tonight.
Autor looked at Charon. From his tone and expression, there was more than what was being said. And Autor could read between the lines. He swallowed hard, wanting to ask and yet not wanting to. Perhaps if he decided to, he should wait until Ahiru was not there.
"Let's give our statements then," he said instead. "Maybe it will help find Fakir sooner."
Ahiru nodded. "Yeah!" she said. "We have to do everything we can, even if it doesn't seem like a whole lot," she added, quieter.
But before they could start walking again, someone cut in front of them. The trio looked up with a start at the footfall.
"It looks like my hunch proved right; Munich was the correct place to come."
Ahiru stared in shock. "Detective Kirsch!" she squealed.
xxxx
Fakir sat slumped against a wall in the bare but carpeted room, clutching his right side. His ribs were still sore from the fight, but since he had not heard any sickening sounds he had to trust that they were not cracked or broken. The gang certainly did not intend to get any medical help for him, at least not at this point.
It felt eerily wrong, to be sitting in the house of a man Anton had just murdered. But Anton had insisted it was the most logical hideout to come to for now. It was the closest, the largest, and no one had any reason to connect Heimbrecht with the crime. They would not be given the chance, either; several gang members were wiping the van down to get rid of all traces of blood. And Heimbrecht himself, Anton had said, would simply take a long sabbatical from which he would never return. Gretel had already recorded the information in the company computers. The body would be disposed of in a way to avoid identification. Fakir would be perfectly content to not know the details of that.
His mind was racing. They had lost track of Ahiru and Charon. He was still sure of that. Anton had not threatened him with any more time-stamped pictures. Surely that meant there were not any more to be had. Maybe Anton did not want to deal with Fakir asking about their existence or even demanding to see them if he tried to bluff and say there were some.
But on the other hand, Anton seemed to know that Fakir was not an idiot. He would suspect something was up if there were no further threats made against his loved ones. Maybe, Fakir thought, he should try to say something about it just to see what Anton would say.
If Ahiru and Charon really had disappeared, that meant Fakir would be fighting against the gang with everything he had. He would not have to be a criminal.
Although . . . when it came right down to it, could he have done it at all? Or would he have still looked for a loophole? He had not known that the gang likely no longer knew where Ahiru and Charon were when he had tried to protect that guy.
I'm just not cut out for this, he knew. I don't want any innocent person to get hurt, whether I know them or not.
The police would know about the robbery now. Hopefully they were trying to find him. But even if they located this place they would come to a dead-end, unless possibly Fakir could leave a clue as to his future whereabouts.
Could he do that? And if so, would the gang really not discover it?
He would probably have to leave it in this room. There was no telling whether he would get another chance to be alone. And the only thing he had that might possibly work was his belt buckle, if he could use it to scratch something small and out-of-the-way into the wall. It should probably also be near the bottom. He would just have to hope that the police would be as thorough as they should be, if they found this place.
He undid his belt and pulled it out of the loops. He would have to work quickly. Who could tell when they might come back for him. Tightly grasping the hook, he turned his attention to the wall. Just above the woodwork he dug the tip into the paint and fought to carve a letter, then a word, and another.
Fakir
Frankfurt
That should be clear enough, he determined. He had written it as tiny as possible, but still big enough that he hoped an ally could notice it. He slid his belt back through the loops and fastened it in place. If his luck could hold out, his enemies would not be the ones to see it.
Would they be more likely to see it if he was in front of it and was pulled away or if he was far away from it to begin with? He frowned, mulling over the options. Then he slid over, hiding the writing with his back. They would probably be too occupied with hauling him up and dragging him off again to bother looking at the wall at all.
He would not stop with this, either. He would look for other opportunities to leave clues. Maybe eventually he would even be able to find a way to contact the police. And he would keep fighting until the gang was defeated.
He froze at the sound of the door opening. They were coming back. A prayer ran through his mind that they would not notice the carving behind him. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at the widening doorway space.
Two gang members he was not very familiar with stepped inside the room. "Okay," one of them growled. "You're on your way to Frankfurt tonight. You'd better not give us any trouble."
"Whatever," Fakir shot back.
They walked over, grabbing hold of Fakir's arms and dragging him to his feet. He went with as much care as he could, trying to steady himself and not jar his side too badly. But in spite of his best efforts he wound up gritting his teeth in pain.
"You're still talking tough, eh?" one of the creeps said. "I thought maybe we pounded that out of you."
"It's not that easy to bring me down," Fakir retorted.
"Maybe not, but you'd better watch what you say and do," the second thug said. "If you deliberately mess up again, even Anton's not going to be so willing to give you another chance."
"Threaten me all you want," Fakir said. "Does it make you feel good?"
The first gangster lashed out, suddenly getting him in a chokehold. "Listen up," he snarled. "Anton's already killed Heimbrecht. We're expendable too. And we're not going to let you seal our deaths the way you sealed his."
Fakir clenched his teeth. "You are not going to blame his death on me," he hissed. He fought to pull his arms free in order to reach up and pull the gangster's arm away from his throat, but in vain. The man's other arm was firmly restraining Fakir's right arm, while his comrade continued to hold onto Fakir's left arm.
"Maybe you didn't outright kill him the way you killed your friend, but you're responsible all the same," the criminal said.
Fakir's heart beat faster. Autor was dead because of him. He knew that. He would never be able to forget it, nor to forgive himself. And the gang had no intention of letting him forget it, either. That had long been obvious. But it did not make the reminders any less painful.
At last the chokehold was released. "That got to you," the man noted. "Any mention of him rattles you to no end."
Was that really how he looked? He could not keep giving them what they wanted like that. But . . . how could he not be rattled? How could he not look it? He had never been so horrified and sickened before. He had killed someone. His own cousin, no less! He tried to make himself not think about it unless he had moments to himself where his thoughts wandered, but that did not always work—especially if the gang purposely brought it up.
"Nevermind," Fakir growled. "We're wasting time. You wanted to go, so let's go." He moved to walk forward, but the thugs held him back.
"Just remember this little discussion," the first one warned.
"Don't worry," Fakir shot back. "There's no way I won't."
"It'd better mean something to you, then," said the second. "Because we mean business."
With that they started walking, pulling Fakir with them to the door. Neither of them glanced back even once. When they were into the hall, one of them reached and clicked off the light.
So far, so good, Fakir thought.
And still no one had mentioned his loved ones. He was not sure what to make of it. Should he just ignore it? If he asked about the sudden lack of interest in Ahiru and Charon, the gang might decide to pretend to know where they were to further manipulate and torment him. But if he said nothing, they might start to wonder why he hadn't and if he could be planning something.
Anton would be smart enough to wonder, anyway. Fakir was sure of that. And he could not risk his fledgling plans for defiance.
"So exactly why should I be afraid of you?" Fakir said as they went down the hall. "If you end up dying because Anton's trigger-happy, you can't bother me."
"The rest of the gang would do that," said the first.
"And I might die. Is that what you're saying?"
"Yeah," said the second.
Fakir looked directly at him. "And the rest of my loved ones. Will they die too?"
The man was instantly uncomfortable. His gaze shifted from side to side, even as he increased his pace and forced Fakir to do the same. "Yeah," he said again.
His reaction confirmed what Fakir had already come to suspect. Ahiru and Charon had gone somewhere away from the gang's knowledge. Somehow they had outsmarted their stalker. Maybe they had even gotten him arrested.
Fakir fell silent as they continued their journey to the French doors at the back of the house. Beyond them were a sprawling backyard and even a helicopter pad.
"We're going to a private airfield Anton owns," the first thug said. "Then we'll take a personal jet of his to Frankfurt."
"He really has everything, doesn't he," Fakir said.
"Pretty much," was the sneering reply.
"Is he planning to come with us this time?" Fakir wondered.
"He's going to fly us there," the man smirked.
Anton was already waiting by the helicopter when they stepped outside. "Well, young Fakir, I trust you've had time to think things over," he commented as they drew near to the helicopter pad.
"I guess that depends on what you mean by that," Fakir shot back.
"As long as you've decided your conduct was foolish and won't be repeated, I don't care what else you thought about," Anton said. The way he kept his voice so calm was more eerie than if he ever raised it.
Fakir glowered at him. "I thought about my conduct," he said. "And yours, too."
"You don't approve of how I handled the situation?" Anton said mildly. He gestured for the thugs to lift Fakir into the aircraft since, due to his injuries, he would have a difficult time managing on his own.
"I guess it could have been worse," Fakir called over his shoulder as he reached for the sides of the doorway, "but no, I wasn't that thrilled."
"Then it's a good thing your opinion doesn't matter."
Fakir could hear Anton's voice as the men kept hold of him around his waist, easing him into the machine. Then he was violently released, nearly being pushed to the floor. He stumbled forward, grabbing onto a nearby seat. The thugs sneered at him.
"Strap yourself in," Anton directed now, hoisting himself up as well. "We wouldn't want you to be thrown about on the ride."
Fakir sank into the seat he was already standing by. "No," he growled, pulling the safety belt over his lap, "we wouldn't."
It was not long before Anton had them airborne. Fakir looked out the nearest window, watching as Heimbrecht's property grew smaller and less detailed in his line of vision.
He had to hope the police would start investigating Heimbrecht's mysterious disappearance soon. Either that or find out that Heimbrecht was in Anton's gang. Anything to prompt them to search the house.
And he had to hope that Heimbrecht's servants would not find his message first and take pains to get rid of it.
Although, coming to think of it, would the servants even know about Heimbrecht's involvement in the gang? He had not seen any either time he had been there. And just suppose they did not know. Then they could be possible allies. Surely they would try to look more deeply into the matter if they found the strange carving in the bare room.
Fakir clung to this newfound thought as the helicopter left Heimbrecht's neighborhood.
xxxx
Autor sighed to himself. He and Ahiru and Charon were all absolutely worn-out.
By the time they had exchanged explanations with Kirsch and delivered statements to the police, it had gotten very late. None of them had gotten enough sleep earlier. Now Ahiru looked asleep on her feet. Charon looked as though he would like to carry her to the car but was too exhausted himself.
At least now Charon and Ahiru were both convinced that Kirsch was on their side. Apparently he had ensured that reports of Fakir's abduction had gone out to all the large cities. Autor supposed it would be easy enough to check his story. He was still cautious, but he wanted to believe that they had a friend on the police force. And he wanted to believe that Charon knew his friend well enough to know that he really was a friend.
He sank onto the edge of the backseat of their rental car, keeping his legs in the open doorway while listening to the nearby discussion of the case. Siegfried von Schroeder had been called about the robbery. He was there now, talking with the officers and the worker whom Fakir had saved.
"I met Mr. Charon this afternoon when I was waiting to have lunch with Mr. Schuhmacher. We have been discussing a business deal of late. Mr. Schuhmacher had not arrived, so I spoke with Mr. Charon about his missing son. Mr. Charon concluded from the story my brother and I told that the gang might perhaps try to rob a warehouse here."
"Did you believe him?" one of the officers asked.
"I thought it was a possibility, at least. I increased the strength of the security, as Mr. Charon suggested," Siegfried said, "but I wasn't expecting trouble. I don't know this gang. I have been under the impression that they attack people who supposedly owe them money or favors. To my knowledge, I don't owe them anything."
One of the policemen wrote the information on a small notepad. "Could anyone in your company be involved with the gang?"
"I would hope not!" Siegfried exclaimed. "Background checks are performed on all of the Schroeder Corporation's employees when they apply. We don't hire anyone who appears suspicious."
"It could be someone without a criminal record," the policeman said. "Would you be able to provide us with a list of all of your employees?"
"Of course," Siegfried answered. "I will cooperate with this investigation in whatever way I can."
Autor removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. If only something could come of this angle. If there was a criminal in von Schroeder's company, and the police could learn of it, maybe it would help lead them to Fakir.
Right now they were at a brick wall. Not that they had not been in such a predicament before hearing about the gang hanging around the industrial park. But it was worse to be stranded without any leads after having had one.
Oh Fakir . . . if only you could have seen us, to have known that we're alright . . . to have known that I'm alive.
There was an all-points bulletin on the van and its license number. More than likely, it would turn up abandoned somewhere, without the gang anywhere in the vicinity. Or maybe they would see to it that it was destroyed somehow.
And Fakir. What would become of Fakir? He had defied the gang. Would he be badly hurt? Autor had asked Charon about that while Ahiru had been giving her statement to the police. Charon had very soberly told him what Ambrosius had said about the beatings.
Autor clenched a fist. It was nothing he had not expected, and nothing Fakir could not handle, but that did not mean it was something he wanted to think about.
And what if Fakir continued to defy them? They would likely decide it was not even worth trying to deal with him. Then what? Would they try to kill him, as Kirsch had said back in Kinkan?
Autor whispered a prayer for Fakir's safety under his breath, as well as a prayer that they or the police or someone else kind would find him. Time was of the essence, now more than ever.
"Autor?"
He looked up at Ahiru's mumbling voice. She had come to the car with her eyes drooping shut and her legs ready to stop supporting her. He frowned in concern.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I wanna sleep now." The defeat and exhaustion were both prevalent in her voice. It rent his heart to hear them, especially the former.
He stood to allow her entrance to the car. "You should sleep," he said. "Get in."
Gratefully Ahiru climbed into the vehicle and promptly snuggled against the plush seat. "Do you think Charon will be ready to go soon?" she wondered, rubbing her cheek over the softness of the backrest.
"I hope so," Autor said. He got back in the car, this time swinging his legs inside and shutting the door to block the conversation outside. "Surely there isn't much more he can tell them by now."
"Mmm. . . ." Ahiru fell silent. Autor glanced at her, studying her quiet form. Was she asleep?
But then he frowned. There were clear drops sliding down her face. He moved closer, concerned.
"Ahiru?" he spoke. "Are you alright?"
Ahiru drew in her breath sharply and hiccupped. "I'm sorry, Autor," she whispered. "I shouldn't let you see me cry, especially after I was so mean to you. . . . I'm just so worried about Fakir! I feel terrible about how everything's gone tonight." She trembled. "I really got myself hoping that we could bring Fakir home. And I know Charon said we couldn't have, but I keep feeling like we could have if I hadn't ruined everything."
Autor reached to gently brush the tears away. "I suppose there's no way to really know," he said. "I blame myself for both our previous failure and this one, but perhaps neither of us have been at fault at all."
"I hope someday we won't feel like we have to keep blaming ourselves," Ahiru said. "Maybe when Fakir is back with us. . . ."
"Perhaps," Autor consented. "But for now, go to sleep," he said. "You've been up for hours. You surely can't be thinking entirely clear by now."
"Yeah. . . ." Ahiru snuggled against the backrest and closed her eyes once more. This time she did go to sleep.
Autor studied her a moment before reaching into the front passenger seat for the fleece throw Ahiru had brought on the trip. He spread it open, draping it over her like a blanket. She burrowed under it, mumbling something incoherent.
Amused, he relaxed against his side of the backrest. Tomorrow they would re-focus on finding Fakir. Tonight they needed to sleep, and to try to ensure it would be peaceful.
He leaned further into the plush backing, closing his eyes.
It was a few minutes later when Ahiru sleepily opened her eyes and focused on Autor's slumbering form. Still not fully awake, she fumbled with the throw until she had part of it over him. Then, smiling, she dozed once more.