Chapter Twenty-One

Fakir's day had been long and strange.

For the most part he had been left alone to continue healing—a process that was, thankfully, coming along well. His head no longer put him in mind of a tom-tom drum. The dizziness seemed to be entirely gone, too.

He had spent most of the day pacing and thinking. He had gone over countless scenarios in his mind of what might happen that night and what he might do to get out of it, but none of them seemed especially favorable. They were all too risky and would likely end with him receiving a bullet in his brain. In the end, he supposed, he would not really know what he could maybe do until the robbery was in progress. The problem was, by then it might be too late.

It was towards evening when the door suddenly opened. He looked up with a start, expecting to see Anton or that woman. Instead, a heavyset man he did not know at all was standing there.

"Who are you?" he frowned.

"Just a businessman," the man smiled. "You may call me Mr. Schuhmacher."

Fakir raised an eyebrow. "You were talking to Anton last night in the hall," he said. The voice was recognizable.

"You were eavesdropping? Your audacity never stops, does it." Schuhmacher looked more amused than anything else.

"I wondered what was going on." Fakir stood his ground. "What does Anton want now?"

"Anton doesn't want anything. He's not even here." Schuhmacher gestured to the hallway. "Why don't you come out and have dinner with me in the main hall?"

Fakir stared at him, both bewildered and suspicious. "What for?"

"Your food won't be poisoned, I can assure you of that," Schuhmacher chuckled. "I just want to talk with you about a business proposal. And quite frankly, your room is too small and I'm hungry."

Fakir was still on his guard. He could imagine what this 'business proposal' might consist of, particularly considering some of the words he had heard Schuhmacher and Anton exchanging. Schuhmacher was not willing to be pushed around by his brother. Maybe he even wanted to get Anton out of the way and lead the gang himself.

Still, it could be the loophole for which Fakir had been desperately searching. He was not about to pass it up.

"Okay," he said. He walked towards the door. "What are you having?"

Schuhmacher stepped aside, allowing Fakir to come into the corridor. "It's a veritable banquet, really," he said. "There's five kinds of dressing, six variety of potatoes, and three types of gravy. And for the centerpiece, roasted duck."

Fakir cringed. "I . . . don't think I'm ready for meat yet," he bluffed as they walked. "But I'll try some of the dressing and potatoes."

"Certainly. There's plenty of duck if you should change your mind."

Fakir was relieved that Schuhmacher did not question it.

"So, what do you think of my wonderful house?"

Fakir started. "Yours?" A flash of last night's conversation came back to him. Schuhmacher considered the house his even though Anton technically owned it. Albeit if the house was in Schuhmacher's name, he had to wonder just how Anton could own it at all, technically or not.

"I haven't seen enough of it to judge," he said then.

"True. That's a shame, really. Anton needn't have kept you cooped up in that one room. There's no escape from this house unless one of us wills it."

"What does that mean?" Fakir queried, suspicion coloring his tone.

Schuhmacher picked up on it. "You're very shrewd," he said. Opening the double-doors to the dining room, he gestured for Fakir to go in first. When Fakir did, Schuhmacher promptly followed, drawing the doors closed after him. "You realize I'm saying that I might be different from Anton," he said as he did so.

"Yeah," Fakir said. "But what's your price?"

He looked over the long and expensive table. The food was in the center, just as Schuhmacher had described. Seeing it and smelling it made him realize how nearly starved he felt. He tried to look away, however, from the plump duck in the middle.

"I could make it worth your while to write for me instead of Anton," Schuhmacher told him. "All you would need to do would be to write me into being the head of this organization. In turn, I would let you go. You could write further Stories for me from afar." He crossed to the table and began to fill a plate. "Neither you nor your loved ones would be in danger."

Fakir frowned. "How do you know I wouldn't call the police as soon as I got free?" he retorted. He moved to the other side of the table, beginning to fill a plate of his own.

"Because for one thing, if you weren't working for me, the alternative would be working for Anton," Schuhmacher said.

"And you think I'd feel some debt of gratitude towards you for getting me out of that mess," Fakir finished.

"Of course," Schuhmacher said. "There's no reason why you shouldn't."

"I have a hard time believing that there's really no catch at all to your idea," Fakir countered. "It sounds too good to be true."

"There is no catch," Schuhmacher said. "I win people with honey, not vinegar."

"You're pretty trusting then," Fakir said. "I could find a way to betray you at any time if I wanted out."

"It's the chance I'd have to take," Schuhmacher said, spreading his hands.

Fakir really did not believe it. Schuhmacher was just as cunning as Anton, even if his methods were different. There had to be a catch somewhere. But for the time being, maybe it would be better for Fakir to pretend that he thought this was true.

He sat down. "It is a good deal," he admitted. "There's just one problem." He took a bite of the potato and cheese casserole, savoring it in his mouth. "I'm not a criminal."

"Yes, that is a problem Anton's been having with you," Schuhmacher said. He began to carve the duck. "He thinks he can intimidate you into doing whatever he wants."

"It's not the methods; it's the principle of it," Fakir said. "It's not in my nature to hurt people like that. I can't do it."

"Oh, everyone has their price," Schuhmacher replied. "Yours is your loved ones." He placed two large slices of duck on his plate.

Fakir averted his gaze to the gravy. "They wouldn't want me to do it, either," he said. "I'd be betraying them. I'd be betraying my cousin, who died trying to save me from this mess."

Schuhmacher chuckled under his breath. Fakir bristled, but clenched his teeth and tried to concentrate on the food. Blowing his top would not serve any purpose whatsoever.

"So," Schuhmacher said, his mouth filled with food, "what do you think you're going to do to get yourself out of this little predicament?"

Fakir hesitated. Was Schuhmacher hoping Fakir would tell what he had in mind for tonight? Surely he did not think Fakir would be trusting and naïve like that.

"Do you really think I'd tell you my plans?" he said.

"No," Schuhmacher said amiably. "It's friendly dinner conversation."

"Oh sure, talking about making you leader and becoming a wanted man is friendly dinner conversation," Fakir retorted.

"My boy, the world at large doesn't even believe in Story-Spinners," Schuhmacher declared. Fakir shoveled more food in his mouth to keep from making a derogatory comment about being called 'my boy'. "They're a thing of legend, a myth. You wouldn't be a wanted man. No one would even believe you'd written anything into coming true!"

"I wouldn't believe it, either," Fakir said. "Especially the part about being a crook. Even if the police didn't believe I was one, I'd feel like one. I'd be tainted."

"You really have integrity, don't you." Schuhmacher continued to eat, unabashed.

"I like to think so, yeah." Fakir tried one of the kinds of dressing. "How would I even write you into being the leader? Wouldn't I have to kill Anton off or something?"

"That would be one possibility," Schuhmacher said. "Or you could have him arrested and imprisoned for life, but that could cause the police to also find and shut down my version of the gang. Unless you wrote a solution to that too."

"You're wasting your breath." Fakir reached for the ice water pitcher and a glass. "I'm not going to do some sneaky, underhanded, even murderous thing, even to Anton. And I'm really not going to do it in order to put another criminal on the throne." He began to pour. "Don't you have any loyalty to your own family at all?"

"Neither of us do, as I'm sure you can imagine," Schuhmacher said.

"Oh yeah, I can imagine," Fakir said. "I've been finding out a lot of things I'd have been really happy to have never known."

For a moment he continued to eat. Then, as though coming from deep contemplation he said, "So if I turn you down I'm back to dealing with Anton's threats."

"That's an apropos way of putting it, yes," Schuhmacher said. "Only I hate to think of giving up my chance at obtaining his level of power."

Fakir shook his head. "Power isn't all that great," he said. "And when you use it just to be selfish, it usually ends up backfiring."

"I didn't invite you here for a lecture, Fakir." Schuhmacher bit off a piece of meat. "So there isn't any way of swaying you? Even though Ahiru has been badly beaten and is still at Anton's mercy? Which is nonexistent. I was under the impression that you'd told Anton you'd write for him because of that."

"I didn't say I wouldn't write for him," Fakir said. "But I don't want some long-term commitment to any crook. All I want is for Ahiru to be safe."

"You know he won't let her go, I hope," Schuhmacher said. "As long as he has her, he can continue manipulating you."

"I figured as much." Fakir looked down, studying his plate. "Maybe I should think over what you've said after all," he said.

"Of course you should," Schuhmacher smiled. "Once you would write me into being the leader, I would permit you to go rescue little Ahiru."

It would have looked suspicious to have flat-out jumped at Schuhmacher's suggestion at the very first. Fakir really did not want to end up committed in a mess like that, either. Both situations made him feel ill. But he wondered which would be easier to escape from—Anton's plan or Schuhmacher's. Either way, he could not actually commit any crimes. He knew that for a surety. However, if he did not already know that Ahiru could not really be a prisoner, it would be extremely tempting to pretend to help Schuhmacher after his last statement.

"If I did end up deciding to help you out, would I still have to write for Anton tonight?" he asked.

"It would be nice to have the riches that will be coming in tonight," Schuhmacher said.

Fakir nodded, mostly to himself. In that case, it really would not help things for him to pretend to commit to Schuhmacher's ideas. He would still have to figure out how to outsmart Anton. He was hoping, maybe against hope, to bring things to a close tonight.

"And if you fail, Anton plans to get rid of you," Schuhmacher said. "But you probably know that from your little eavesdropping session last night."

"Yeah." Fakir chewed slowly. "Give me until after the robbery tonight to decide for sure about your offer," he said. "I'm still trying to figure out if there's some way I can save Ahiru without being a crook."

"Fair enough," Schuhmacher said. "Only if something goes wrong, you might end up dead on the spot. Think about that."

Fakir had. Part of the reason he had led Schuhmacher into this charade was to find out if he felt the same as to what Anton's intentions were. Of course, this could be a persuasion technique of his. But Fakir would be inclined to believe that it was indeed what might be Anton's reaction.

Either that or some extreme torture, which Anton had indicated the previous night.

The sound of a car outside caused him to glance towards the window. Schuhmacher gave no sign of concern, but Fakir had to wonder what was going on out there. The vehicle sounded very close. Maybe Anton was coming back.

"Hey," he said. "What will happen if Anton comes and finds you've let me out?"

Schuhmacher laughed and shrugged. "He'll be angry," he said. "Maybe we'll argue a bit. It won't be a serious matter."

"It'd better not be," Fakir said. "I don't want to end up in trouble for it."

"Oh, you won't, I can assure you of that," Schuhmacher said. "If Anton gets angry with anyone, he'll get angry with me."

"Good." Fakir frowned. "But won't he suspect something's up? Surely you don't want him to get any ideas that you're looking to usurp him."

"If you don't say anything, there shouldn't be any problem," Schuhmacher replied. "I don't intend to reveal the truth about our get-together. I'll tell him I thought you needed your strength up to its fullest for tonight and that you would be healthier if you got out of that room. He already knows that I think putting you under room arrest was ridiculous."

Room arrest. That was a good way to put it, alright.

It still sounded like an engine was running. Fakir leaned back, trying to casually glance out the window. He could see the front of the car, and its headlights, but nothing more. He stood, wandering closer to the glass. The vehicle was outside and to the right of the front gates. And it looked like the driver had no intention of coming inside.

"You really shouldn't be standing by the window," Schuhmacher scolded. "Someone might see and recognize you."

Fakir grunted. "Would anyone recognize me?" he retorted. "The window's not that close to the street."

"Don't take any chances!" Schuhmacher said. "Come away, come away!"

Fakir went back to the table and sat down. The car's engine had been cut now, yet the automobile was still sitting there. Who in the world was inside? Should he point it out to his host? Or should he just let it go? Maybe it was even the police, having tracked him here. That was surely just a fantastic, untrue dream. Still, he could not quell the hope. He would mention nothing, especially since Schuhmacher had not seemed to notice the sound of the engine.

They ate in silence for several minutes. But then Schuhmacher seemed to grow restless. He stood, moving to the window himself.

"It's strange that Anton isn't back," he mused. "Who knows, maybe we'll be able to return you to your room without him ever even knowing you were out."

"Then you are worried about what he'll do," Fakir said.

"Of course not. I only thought you were," Schuhmacher said dismissively. "Oh, are you sure you don't want any of the duck?"

Fakir's stomach knotted. "Yeah," he said. "I'm sure."

Schuhmacher attacked the fowl with the knife again. "Suit yourself, my boy."

"Don't call me your boy," Fakir muttered.

xxxx

Kirsch had been watching the white house for what seemed ages before he caught a glimpse of activity. After the twilight had entirely given way to the night, a beam of light flashed inside the uppermost window. It came once, twice, then was gone.

He came to attention from where he was positioned behind a tree across the street. Someone was in there! Maybe they were doing something with the crates, or planning to. It could all be innocent, he told himself. It might even just involve furniture. But, either because of the sudden excitement of the hunt or because he longed for a decent lead, he could not make himself fully think that.

He slipped closer to the abode, keeping to the shadows. As he reached the other side of the street, the light arrived at the bottom floor and played over the window Autor had looked through earlier. The curtain swayed and was pulled shut, eliminating the thin crack.

Without warning the front door opened and a tall, stern man stepped out. He guided the door closed behind him and then turned to lock it before straightening and walking from under the small, pillared roof. The flashlight he had been using he stuck in his pocket.

Kirsch debated within himself. To try to determine if this man was in the gang he had to catch him off-guard. Maybe if he asked a strange question.

"Is Fakir with you?" he blurted, still concealed behind a bush.

The man stiffened, his eyes widened in shock. "Who's there?" he demanded, whirling to look at one side, then another.

"Anton sent me to relieve you," Kirsch continued.

Now the gang suspect had pinpointed Kirsch's direction and was heading towards him. "You're lying," he said.

"Oh? And how do you know that?" Kirsch returned.

"You should know that . . ." The stranger stiffened, seeming to realize that he had said too much.

Kirsch smirked to himself. "This is the police," he intoned. "You're under arrest." He stepped out from the bush.

The man stared at him in shock, his mouth working without any sound coming out. Abruptly he turned, fleeing down the street.

Kirsch followed in hot pursuit, soon lunging and tackling the criminal to the ground. Even as his prisoner struggled and yelled, squirming in his grasp, Kirsch wrenched the arms around and tied them in place with his necktie. As a member of the municipal police, he only had authority to make citizen's arrests and was not permitted to carry handcuffs. But this guy did not need to know that. Right now, Kirsch had the upper hand.

"Okay," Kirsch said. "I think it's time for you to talk. You know about Anton. What's going on at this house? It's owned by the businessman Bernhard Schuhmacher. What does he have to do with Anton Schuster?"

His captive sneered at him. "Don't think you're going to get anything out of me," he said. "I'm not talking."

"Anton's gang is an uncooperative bunch," Kirsch said. "But we'll find out what we want to know. I'm sure that now I have more than enough to get hold of a search warrant." He straddled the prisoner and took out his cellphone, quickly dialing the number of the state police. The criminal fought to get up, but in vain.

It only took a moment for Kirsch to explain what was going on to the policeman who answered the phone. He was promised a squad car would arrive in minutes, and that a search warrant would be sought for the house. He hung up, satisfied.

The man continued to be unwilling to offer information, no matter what Kirsch asked. Kirsch delivered him to the state police moments later, nodding in approval as they loaded him into the squad car.

"That felt good," Kirsch said to himself. "I've found my calling in life."

xxxx

Ahiru shifted anxiously as Charon crossed the street and knocked on the door of the house directly across from them. She was looking back and forth between homes, waiting to see if someone would answer for Charon and if Fakir would reappear at the window.

Autor shook his head. "How about you watch one location and I'll watch the other?" he said.

Ahiru froze. "I guess I'm really jumpy," she said. "But we're so close again to finding Fakir and . . ."

Autor seized her arm. "Wait! A car is coming. And . . ." He leaned forward to peer at the oncoming vehicle more closely. He gasped in amazement. "It's the car we were following all afternoon! I recognize the license number!"

Ahiru jerked. "Eh?" She watched as it drew closer. "It's coming here!"

Autor was already grabbing the fleece throw from the passenger seat. "We have to make ourselves scarce," he said. "They can't see we're in here, if they haven't already."

Ahiru gasped. "What do we do? What do we do?" she yelped. "How can they not see us?"

Autor threw the soft covering over her head. "Curl up completely on the seat and don't move!" he instructed. He then followed his own advice and burrowed under it.

Swallowing hard, Ahiru did likewise. It was cramped and uncomfortable, and she had the distinct feeling that the stubborn piece of hair on her head was tickling Autor's nose, but she forced herself to lay still. Outside, the other car was stopping and the doors were opening.

"What's that car doing here?" they could hear one man saying.

"It doesn't look like anyone's inside. Maybe they already went in," said the second.

"Are you sure there's no one in there? I could have sworn I saw something move." The first started to step towards the rental car.

"It's your imagination," the second retorted. "We need to get inside; Bernhard's going to be wondering where we've been."

Autor reached up, trying to carefully move the piece of hair away from his nose without causing a movement to the throw that would be visible from the outside.

"If that crazy car hadn't been following us, we could have got back a lot sooner. And hey!" Ahiru's eyes widened to twice their size. "This looks a lot like that car." He tried the driver's door. "It's locked!"

"And there's no one inside," the second told him. "Look, if you really think it's the same car, that's all the more reason we've got to get to the house. Maybe we need to warn Bernhard to get the kid out of there."

The first was still trying the handles of the other doors. "They're all locked," he growled. "Whoever's been driving this car might be trying to get into the house!" He stepped away. "Come on, let's hurry."

The footsteps faded from near the car. The duo was jogging to the heavy, wrought iron gates. One of them apparently pushed a button, as there came a buzzing sound. Then the noise cleared as a voice spoke through the intercom. "Who is it?"

"It's us—Einhard and Clemens. And we've got some possibly bad news."

There was another buzz and, with a mechanical whirr, the gates began to swing open. "Get inside," the voice barked. "Now!"

The two did exactly that. The gates began to close behind them.

Autor cautiously peeked up from under the throw. "They might try to get Fakir out of the house before the police have a chance to come," he exclaimed. "Maybe they have a secret way out through a tunnel on the property."

Ahiru rose up as well. "What are we going to do?" she cried.

Autor glanced back at the house across the street. No one was out; Charon had either gotten inside to make the call or he had gone to try a different house.

"I hate to say it," he said, "but this seems to be extenuating circumstances. Come on." He opened the door and hurried to the gates, keeping himself bent over and low.

He could only pray that this was not a mistake and that he was not leading Ahiru into another certain disaster. If he brought about another tragedy from his actions . . . well, he was not sure what he would ever do. Or what anyone else would.

Ahiru scrambled after him, her heart racing. She was praying the same thing as Autor—and also that Charon would suspect what had happened when he returned and found them absent.

They barely slipped through the gates before they clanged shut.