Chapter Fifteen
It was some time later when Charon at last returned to the car, exhausted and strangely mixed with both discouragement and hope. The police had asked so many questions and then had re-asked some of them. He could only pray that it would bring Fakir back to them faster.
By now, on his second night without sleep, he was ready to drop. He opened the driver's door, chancing to look in the back to see if the kids were there. He hoped they were; at the moment he did not know if he could force himself to go look for them without resting first.
As he took in the peaceful scene, a smile crossed his features. Both Autor and Ahiru were slumbering under the warm throw. At the moment, neither of them looked as though anything was wrong. And as soon as he got them back to the hotel, he was going to take their lead and see that he got some sleep. Somehow he doubted that he would have difficulty with it this time.
"Charon."
He straightened and looked up with a start at Kirsch's voice. The policeman was coming over to him, weaving his way around patrol cars.
"Are you leaving now?"
Charon nodded. "The kids have had enough of this," he said. "And right now, so have I. It doesn't look like we can do anything more here."
Kirsch nodded as well. "The state police are taking all the information they've been given and will be going over it probably all night," he said.
"Do they have any ideas at all?" Charon asked.
Kirsch paused. "The security cameras at the warehouse were all disabled," he said. "That could mean one of two things. Either someone in the gang knows enough about electronics in general to do that . . . or they know about von Schroeder's electronics in specific."
"Which would indicate there was someone in von Schroeder's employ involved," Charon surmised. Or that Fakir disabled them with his writing. But Charon did not want to think about that.
"Yes." Kirsch glanced around, then lowered his voice. "I asked von Schroeder to give me a copy of his employee list. I know this case is in the jurisdiction of the state police, but considering that Fakir is from the town of my jurisdiction, I want to do some investigating of my own, even though it can't be official."
Charon's eyebrows rose. "Even in town, you don't have authority over a serious case like this," he said.
"I know," Kirsch frowned. "That's why it can't be official. But I want to know I've done my part." He looked Charon in the eyes. "Fakir is a good boy. I want to help you ensure that nothing happens to him."
"Then I take it you won't be trying to convince me to take the kids back home and wait there," Charon said.
"No." Kirsch shook his head. "I don't think they should be involved, but they're safer with you then back home."
Charon gave a weary nod. "I've tried to discourage them from being involved in the search, but it's not possible." He looked to them through the window. "They're every bit as determined to find Fakir as I am. It's their search too." He sighed. "They, and Fakir, have already been through so much. And none of them are older than fifteen."
"It's tragic," Kirsch frowned.
Charon hesitated. "Some of it is, yes," he consented. "But they've all matured a great deal. And if it wasn't for them, we would still be stranded in Drosselmeyer's bubble."
"It's strange to think about." Kirsch pushed up his hat. "Even now that all of my memories have been restored, I have a hard time comprehending that we were the players in that man's twisted Story." He glanced to Autor and Ahiru's slumbering forms. "The entire town owes these two and Fakir so much."
Charon nodded in full agreement. "That reminds me," he said. "Do you know how widespread the knowledge of Story-Spinners is outside of Kinkan?"
Kirsch regarded him in surprise. "Not really," he said. "If I had to guess, I would say not by much. If I was going to be a pessimist, I would say that the main ones who know about and believe in Story-Spinners are probably those who shouldn't know at all."
"And I would agree with you," Charon said in all weariness.
"In any case, I don't think we should mention that angle to the state police," Kirsch said. "At least not yet. It's enough for them to know that Fakir's father was in the gang and they've abducted Fakir in Ambrosius's place."
"And since Fakir will hopefully not be helping with any of the robberies, we shouldn't need to feel that the police should be warned about the Story-Spinning power," Charon said.
"Especially when they likely wouldn't believe us." Kirsch moved to step away. "I should let you go," he said. "We can talk more about this tomorrow."
Charon nodded. "Have you found a place to stay yet?" he queried.
"I haven't," Kirsch said. "I was going to ask for the address of the place you and the kids are at."
"If you're leaving now, you can follow me and I'll take you there," Charon said.
"Thank you," Kirsch said in relief. "I was afraid I'd have to drive all over the city looking for a decently-priced inn."
"This one might be slightly higher than you'll want to go," Charon said. He told the other man of the hotel's rates.
Kirsch's eyebrows knitted. "Is it worth the price?"
"I would say so," Charon said.
"Then I'll give it a try," Kirsch said. "It's possible none of us will be in Munich long anyway."
"I wondered if the gang would be moving on," Charon said. He clenched a fist. "Or if instead they'll make Fakir write that no one will recognize them."
"They might do both." Kirsch's tone was grim. "I wouldn't put anything past them."
"Nor would I." Charon moved to get into the car. "Thank you again for everything you've done to help. It means a great deal to me, as well as to Autor and Ahiru."
"I'll keep doing whatever I can," Kirsch said. "I think someone in the state police wanted to prevent the investigation. With this robbery, they shouldn't have any luck with that now. The state police are determined to solve this."
"We can hope." Charon climbed into the car and started to pull the door shut.
Kirsch shut it the rest of the way for him, giving a nod as he walked to his own car.
Charon sighed. He felt guilty for ever even considering that Kirsch was their possible spy. The stress and uncertainty were doing strange and unwelcome things to all of their minds. He had always known that Kirsch was a man of integrity. He never should have let himself think otherwise.
He dug into his pocket for the car keys, glancing to Ahiru and Autor in the backseat as he searched. They were both still sleeping. Neither of them stirred when he found the keyring and inserted the proper key into the ignition.
This day had taken a harsh toll on all of them, and likely on Fakir. Charon could only pray that the coming day would be better.
xxxx
There were some things about this mess that did not add up.
Fakir frowned to himself as he stared out the window of the helicopter, looking at yet not really seeing the dark trees and buildings.
When they had arrived in Munich, Fakir had been made to write that no one thought anything of them as they had departed von Schroeder's company building. Why was it that after the robbery, Anton did not simply put a gun to Fakir's head and force him to write something similar so that they could continue their crime spree in this city?
Did he really want to go to Frankfurt now? Had his plan been all along to commit one robbery per city? And if so, why? Was it just an odd quirk of his? Or did he have some other, more sinister motive?
Fakir did have the feeling that Anton was keeping a lot of things secret. The man was a complete mystery, and an unwelcome one at that. His cool, collected tones and ice-cold eyes made Fakir both wary and angry. Fakir actually thought he would be less disturbed if Anton grew visibly angry instead of staying unbelievably calm after even the most aggravating setback. The fact that Anton remained so in control made Fakir wonder what would happen if he ever did become outwardly infuriated. After all, it was always the quiet ones.
The helicopter was lowering now. Fakir started back to the present, observing the airfield as they descended towards it. There was only one hangar and one visible jet airplane, as well as the helicopter pad and the runway. But apparently that was enough.
It was too bad Anton owned the place. There would not be much hope of being able to leave a clue even if Fakir had the chance to drop one. The police had no idea about this location, he was sure. And everyone who worked here was probably as crooked as the gang.
"Don't try any funny stuff," growled one of the two men who were still guarding him. "We get out, cross the runway, and go into the airplane."
And then we recite the alphabet, Fakir added sarcastically to himself. They seemed to feel that now Fakir was unaware of the simplest instructions. Or more likely, that he was unwilling to follow the simplest instructions. Which was true, but for now it looked like he did not have a choice again.
It would be nice if he could figure out how to get the entire gang running out of the helicopter, giving him access to the radio to call for help. Of course, he could very easily Story-Spin a distraction . . . if he could write one sentence without them watching. There would have to be a distraction in order for him to have time to write a distraction. Right now, it looked hopeless.
The helicopter landed, the large propellers on top slowing and then stopping as the motor was cut. The two men hauled Fakir to his feet.
"Anton goes first," said the second. "Then we can get off."
"Great," Fakir grunted.
Anton stepped out of the cockpit and jumped to the ground. Then, calmly, he looked up at the gang members.
"Now it's your turn," he said, looking to Fakir. "Be careful; you don't want to trip."
Fakir's stomach tied in knots. It had been an alright ascent without problems, but now upon getting out, maybe the crooks would not be as concerned with him. He could picture them taking a sharp jump to the ground with him in tow, and even though it was not far to fall, it could still jar his ribs on impact.
They seemed to have that in mind. Still gripping Fakir's arms painfully, they leaped out with one accord. Fakir clenched his teeth and bent his knees, bracing himself for hitting the ground.
Even with his legs bent to absorb the blow, the pain shot into his side the moment they landed. He gasped, nearly losing his balance. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see one of the creeps sneering.
"Good work," the man praised.
Fakir glowered.
Anton looked satisfied. He turned, heading towards the jet. "You're lucky that there are stairs going into the airplane, young Fakir," he said. "Of course if there weren't, maybe you could Spin yourself a pair of wings and fly up."
"It doesn't work that way," Fakir muttered. "And if I could do anything, I'd Spin myself out of this mess altogether."
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to straighten before the thugs could attempt to make him do so. They prodded him along almost instantly, heading towards the jet.
"Too bad you'll never get free," smirked the first.
Anton, overhearing the conversation, nodded. "I'm sure you haven't forgotten everything that's at stake," he said.
"No, but I've been wondering if you have," Fakir said, unable to stop himself now that Anton was broaching the subject. "What about this sniper who's been supposedly following my loved ones? I haven't heard anything about him or what's happening to them, even after all the threats you made against them."
"Don't trick yourself into a false sense of security, Fakir," Anton replied smoothly and without skipping a beat. "I wanted to see if you remembered, and how you would behave if so. If you believed they were no longer in danger, you might try to leave in spite of the threats against your own life."
The color drained from Fakir's face. Was Anton telling the truth? Had he walked right into another of the mob boss's cruel traps? Maybe that was the reason for the gangster's reluctance to talk about Fakir's loved ones a few minutes ago—Fakir had simply asked too soon and the crook did not know what to say without Anton there.
What if Ahiru or Charon were dead right now? What if Fakir just had not been told in order to see if he would get bolder, like Anton had said?
And he had already left that message etched into the wall. . . .
"Where are they now?" he rasped.
"The girl has been captured," Anton said. "She's still alive, but is being tortured as we speak."
Fakir's heart pounded in his ears. Immediately he looked to the men holding onto him. Both seemed unmoved. This information was not a surprise to them.
"Charon wouldn't let them take her without a fight," he said, turning back to Anton.
"Indeed he did not." Anton regarded Fakir with a calm look of steel. "He was shot four times at point-blank range. It's amazing he's still alive. But don't expect it to last."
Fire flashed and burned in Fakir's eyes. He lunged forward, his rage overcoming his senses. But he got no further than several inches. The two thugs threw him to the ground before he had a chance to try to tear away from them. Then they were pressing him hard into the concrete.
Anton watched it all, his eyes flickering almost imperceptibly. "Never underestimate us, Fakir," he said. He reached into his jacket pocket, removing his revolver. It clicked as he pointed it at Fakir's head. "Get up."
Still shaking, Fakir began to push himself to his hands and knees. The pain in his ribs, which he had forgotten about in his fury, now screamed for his attention. His guards, unconcerned, hauled him the rest of the way to his feet.
"Now," Anton said, "I believe it's time to go." He turned, walking up the steps to the airplane's doorway without another word.
Fakir felt physically sick. When the sentries forced him to walk forward, his legs were like jelly. If this was true, then he had failed in the most horrible way he possibly could have. Charon was at death's door and Ahiru was being tortured. He had saved the life of a complete stranger and had forfeited his loved ones', just as he feared.
They never would have wanted him to do anything else. He knew that. And apparently he was not capable of doing anything else, either. He had known that their lives were in his hands during the robbery, but he had still abandoned all thought and rescued that night watchman when his life had been obviously in danger.
But . . . was there any chance Anton was lying?
A creep like him would probably lie without a second thought. And just maybe, if Fakir's earlier suspicions were correct and the gang had lost track of Ahiru and Charon, Anton was trying to manipulate him with a falsehood now.
The problem was, he could not know. If they did have Ahiru, she would either die from the torture or they would keep her alive until the next robbery. And if Fakir failed to comply with any orders, she would be killed then.
Maybe they would kill her anyway, because of tonight.
Would it still be better to keep to his plans of trying to bring the gang down? If he could just find a way to get the police notified, maybe he could save Ahiru before she was tortured to death. And if it were all a lie and she was not in danger, well, he would be doing the best thing anyway.
He was so involved in his thoughts that he scarcely noticed as they reached the top of the stairs and entered the plush jet. When he was abruptly pushed into a seat he looked up with a start.
"You look like death warmed over," the first guard hissed at him. "And you should know now that if you don't cooperate, your precious girlfriend will look even worse. You can get the color back in your face. She won't."
Fakir cursed him in his mind. "I know," he said, his voice dark and cold.
"And don't forget that your adopted father is probably going to be dead by morning," the second chimed in without any inhibitions. "If not sooner. By the time he was found, he had already lost a whole lot of blood."
"Shut up!" Fakir snarled.
The sentries backed off, both looking unmercifully pleased at his reaction.
Fakir turned his attention to the safety belt so as to avoid having to make eye contact with them. His hands shook as he pulled the strap over and clicked it into place.
Behind him, the other gang members were coming aboard. He could not care less; he was far removed from the scene.
Inwardly he cried out for Ahiru and Charon. It only took a moment for his silent words to become a desperate prayer for their safety. They should not suffer because he had tried to save someone else's life. They should not, they should not!
He leaned forward, digging his fingers into his hair. At this point, he was not sure how much more of this he could take.
xxxx
Autor did not awaken until morning. When his senses began to revive and his eyes slowly opened, he found to his surprise that he was lying in bed. He rose up on one elbow, studying the area through his blurred vision.
It was the room at the hotel. Charon was asleep in the other bed. Ahiru was probably slumbering in the adjoining room.
Autor lay back on the soft pillow, trying to remember. He and Ahiru had both been in the car and had fallen asleep there. Charon must have carried them to their respective beds after driving to the hotel.
He turned a bit red at the thought. He would have had to have been in a deep sleep for that to be the case. Either that or he had awakened so vaguely in order to walk to bed that he had promptly gone back to sleep and remembered nothing of it now.
He had not been carried to bed in years, not since he had collapsed on the floor with that fever and had been found by the servant. If that was what had happened last night, well . . . it was an appropriate close to his breakdown, he supposed.
Now that he had slept on it, it did mortify him. He had displayed such open weakness in front of Charon, and unknowingly in front of Ahiru too. He had allowed himself to be vulnerable.
And yet he knew they would never hold it against him. Charon would likely not mention it again. Ahiru might worriedly ask him if he was feeling better today, but that would be it.
As long as Fakir never found out.
Autor rolled onto his side, staring at the wall across from him without really focusing on it. He had tried to not think much on Fakir, even though he was the entire reason for this trek. It agonized Autor too deeply to mull over Fakir, and by extension, their friendship. But then he discovered, at times such as last night, that all of the pain he was not exploring was finding ways to haunt him nevertheless. Consciously he had tried to avoid it, but subconsciously it had not left him alone.
Instead of really thinking about Fakir, Autor had instead tried to concentrate on the facts and figures of the case and to analyze the possibilities and potential outcomes of their future choices. But his mind ended up wandering anyway and he found himself wondering if Fakir was alright or if he was being harmed.
Was there any chance that Fakir had seen them last night? It was doubtful. He had been occupied, and then the van had got in his way, so there had not been much opportunity. For all he knew, Autor was dead.
When Autor had actually seen Fakir standing up by those crates, he had wanted to fling open the door as Ahiru had done and call to the other boy, letting him know he was alive. But he had restrained himself, not wanting the gang members to hear. And then he had needed to dive after Ahiru, who had not even seen the van barreling towards her in her frantic desperation.
Autor shut his eyes tight. If he had not been there . . . oh dear God, she would be dead. Or seriously injured. Even if she had not forgiven him, he knew that he could never regret tackling her away. Charon was right—there had been no other choice. Autor gave thanks that he had been able to move fast enough to preserve her life.
And he had to admit, he was relieved that she had forgiven him. He had been trying to keep himself under control, and he had done well with that until last night, but if he had to deal with Ahiru hating him he was not sure he could even do a good job on the case. He could easily picture closing himself off even more thoroughly than he had as a child. And after having experienced Ahiru's beautiful and pure friendship, to lose it like that would have irreparably shattered his heart. Judging from how this whole agonizing matter was tormenting him far more than he even wanted to acknowledge to himself, that would have weighed him down far too much to be able to stand.
But now that he was more rational than he had been when talking to Charon last night, he could not believe Ahiru would not have forgiven him. She would have calmed down and grasped the truth, just as she actually had done. She was too intelligent and kind and understanding to hold a grudge, especially under the circumstances when Autor had saved her life.
That was one reason why they got along so well in general, he supposed. In spite of her moments of immaturity and childishness, she was really an incredible, determined girl with a great deal of hidden depth. And her moments of not understanding terms such as "mole" and "plant" both amazed him and further endeared her to him.
Fakir had similar views on Ahiru's personality and behavior. The only main difference was that he and Autor loved Ahiru in diverse ways.
Autor sighed. Hopefully Fakir really did know that Autor was not going to take Ahiru from him, and that Ahiru was not interested in being taken away from him. Surely Fakir had spoken in anger and stress, just as Ahiru had done. There was still a part of Autor's heart, however, that worried over whether Fakir did understand.
I hope we will get a chance to talk again, sometime soon, he thought, and that we can resolve any lingering disputations.
I suppose I shouldn't have grown angry with you, Fakir. I should have remained the calm voice of reason to counter your madness. At the heart of the problem, I was both hurt and afraid. I thought you were going to attack me. When you did, coupled with your insults, my feelings turned to outrage and indignation.
I'm sorry.
Suddenly the door was opening a crack. He started, turning his blurred attention to the other wall. Ahiru, who was peering through the slit, jumped a mile.
"I'm sorry!" she squealed in a whisper. "I just woke up and wondered what was going on. We were in the car before. . . ."
"Charon must have brought us to bed," Autor said. He nodded towards the other bed. "He's still asleep."
"Oh." Ahiru nodded. "I'll go." She started to shut the door. "Why don't you come over?"
"Alright," Autor consented. "I'll get dressed."
Ahiru beamed and closed the door the rest of the way.
A slight smile played on Autor's lips as he reached for his glasses. Yes, everything seemed to be back to normal between them. They were the best of friends and hopefully always would be.
He hoped the same could still be said of him and Fakir.