The Mute Swan: A Thriller Read online

  With the column at his back, he stood facing the mirror. He realized how uncomfortable it would be for tourists. It gave a mere ten to twelve feet of span. No wonder people hardly visited.

  “You have other mirrors in the museum?” Sailor asked Wolfe.

  “How should I know?”

  “It’s the only mirror,” Kopke said.

  “Ever thought of becoming a museum curator or a tour guide, Kopke?” Sailor said, eyes on the mirror.

  “Well, thank you,” Kopke smiled. “It doesn’t pay much, especially insurance. You think the killer wants us to inspect this mirror?”

  “Mirror mirror on the wall. It seems about the only place I can say that phrase,” Sailor ran his hands over the red frame.

  He traced the cracks and creases which had aged it considerably. Cracks ran deeper in places. It would soon cause the frame to fall apart.

  “Time, you sneaky bastard,” Sailor mumbled. “We never see you coming.”

  The wood smelled too much of cleaning detergent, the cheaper type, as if whoever took care of this place hadn’t been instructed how to care for valuable artifacts.

  “Kopke,” Sailor said. “Help me pull the mirror out a little so I can see behind it — don’t worry, Wolfe, I’m not going to take it off the wall.”

  Kopke followed Sailor’s instructions and offered a flashlight. Sailor pooled a beam of yellow onto the wall behind the mirror.

  He saw nothing of significance. A blue wall, the same color as the rest of the museum. No secret safe. No ancient writing. No color red. No clues.

  Sailor didn’t recognize the type of wood in the back of the mirror, but it was plain without marks or carvings either. Not even a museum's item number or reference code. The surface looked smooth, devoid of secret openings or something that required further investigation.

  They leaned the mirror back against the wall.

  Sailor returned to face the mirror, tempted to talk to it, “Did you ever talk to the mirror, Kopke?”

  “This one, no.”

  “At home, then?”

  “Sometimes,” Kopke’s eyes looked sideways, as if worrying Wolfe would make fun of him.

  “In the bathroom?”

  Kopke nodded.

  “Whatcha say?” Sailor whispered.

  “Nothing special,” Kopke whispered back.

  “Ever pretend you’re Robert De Niro from Taxi Driver and ask the man inside if he is talking to you?”

  “No,” Kopke stiffened and stood erect.

  “Come on, Kopke, don’t be like that,” Sailor noticed that Wolfe was answering a phone call, probably from his wife because he sounded furious. “You’re allowed to have your private moments and talk to the mirror.”

  “Okay,” Kopke rolled his eyes. ”I do it all the time actually.”

  “Whatcha say?”

  “I say, ‘I’m enough’ or ‘I can do this.’ Things like that.”

  “Self help, huh?” Sailor nodded. Drugs made him have the craziest conversations sometimes.

  “And you?” Kopke said.

  “What about me?”

  “You talk to the mirror? I guess not. You look like a confident man who doesn’t want anything from anyone.”

  “I talk to mirrors, trust me.”

  Wolfe had just hung up and stomped his foot.

  “What do you say then?” Kopke urged him before Wolfe returned.

  Sailor smirked at his blurry image in the mirror. “Bloody Mary, Kopke. Bloody Mary.”

  Wolfe arrived and eyeballed the two. “What did I miss?”

  “A minute ago you didn’t want anything to do with this,” Kopke said.

  “Shut up…” Wolfe said but stopped to Sailor’s hand, suddenly shushing him.

  “Look,” Sailor said, pointing at the mirror.

  Wolfe looked, only Kopke understood, now with an open mouth.

  Wolfe stood farther from the mirror with his back only a couple of feet away from the column, yet his reflection in the mirror was crisper and clearer than both of them.

  Chapter 9

  Hadn’t Kopke and Wolfe seen it too, Sailor would have wondered if he was too high.

  “Is that normal?” Wolfe pointed at his own reflection.

  “A mirror whose reflection improves with distance,” Kopke said. “I’ve read about early mirrors having either concave or convex issues like these.”

  Sailor knew a few things about mirrors, but not this fact, not this mirror. He wondered if that was something the Talking Mirror was known for in the world of museum lovers, but he preferred to look at the situation at hand. Was this known to the killers? Was it part of the game?

  His face knotted as he instructed the two officers to move out of the way, leaving him face to face with the wall. Not the one with the mirror, but the column.

  Wolfe and Kopke wanted to look over his shoulder but Sailor was a tall and broad-shouldered man, so they awkwardly looked from around his shoulders.

  And there it was. The writing on the wall. In blood.

  Silence hung thick in the air. Not because they finally found the next clue, but because they couldn’t read it. Had it not been in blood, they may have dismissed it. Red marked the spot.

  “Is that writing or a drawing?” Wolfe said.

  “It’s stacked in lines under each other,” Kopke said. “It’s writing.”

  “A poem,” Sailor said absently.

  “You recognize the language?” Kopke said.

  “No, but the pattern. Commas at the end — or beginning — of sentences. Only one period after the last sentence. Lines mostly equal in length.”

  “You’re right,” Kopke said. “Do you think it’s Persian? The structure and curves look like that to me.”

  “It’s not Persian.”

  “No ‘Google Translate’ to help us here,” Kopke said.

  Wolfe eyed him enough to make the young man shrug, then said to Sailor, “How do you know it’s not Persian?”

  “It’s not a language,” Sailor said. “No in this form.”

  “Huh?” Kopke said.

  Sailor had known what it was from the beginning. He knew what to do next. He only contemplated if he should play the game further. A sense of dread washed over him.

  “If this isn’t readable, what is the point of this stupid game then?” Wolfe huffed.

  Sailor said nothing.

  “Mr. Sailor?” Kopke said. “Are you okay?”

  Sailor sighed and turned around to face the mirror again, still squeezed between the two of them, following his gaze..

  “Why are you looking at the mirror?” Wolfe said.

  Sailor said, “Can you give me some space to the left and right?”

  “Oh sorry,” Kopke said and complied.

  Sailor waited for them and then took a step to the right himself. Now the writing on the wall was reflected in the mirror. As crisp as ever. Readable.

  “Fa-sci-na-ting,” Kopke stressed on every syllable like rappers, “Mirror mirror on the wall, what’s the writing on the opposite wall. ”

  “It’s not gibberish,” Sailor said. “It’s written backwards.”

  Chapter 10

  The Holle Family House, Lohr, Bavaria, Germany

  Hannah’s mother, Angie, sat with both hands resting on the kitchen table inside her timber house in the outskirts of Lohr. Located deep into the forest, it was more of a safe house than a home. A single path from the city to the small house. The locals called it the Donkey Trail, one of many in Germany. The trails had been carved through the snow for donkey caravans used to transport salt a few centuries back. The house should have been the perfect hideout, but it wasn’t.

  Angie’s cell phone lay silent before her. Its black mirrored surface reflected the face of a worried mother.

  In the front hallway, open cartons littered the floor, along with Hannah’s broken bicycle. She had promised her daughter she would fix it once they settled in, but she had a busy week.

  Generally, Hannah was a polit
e girl. She had been used to travelling to a new town every few months. This was her life, as it was Angie’s, and had been Angie’s mother. Sometimes the present was only a prison of someone else's past.

  Looking at the bicycle, Angie began to accept the fact that she wasn’t going to fix it.

  Hannah had left for a hike in the mountains. Her cell phone had been unreachable for hours. She loved hiking, but she still called. Always. Angie was her best friend after all. Only two other girls Hannah’s age came second and third place — but they lived miles away.

  Angie knew this day would come. She prayed it wouldn’t be today, though. Her hands squeezed a necklace she only wore when alone in the house. Two black swans forming two S letters. She prayed in German with an accent long forgotten from the city of Kassel.

  Her cell phone rang. A polyphonic version of Swan Lake by Tchaikovsky. Hannah hated that song. Angie too, but it was a family tradition from the past.

  But did Angie really want to pick up now?

  This wasn’t Hannah calling, but someone who only called in darker times.

  Someone who was listed as Mother.

  Chapter 11

  The Spessart Museum, Lohr, Bavaria, Germany

  The writing on the wall wasn’t exactly a poem, but more of a nursery rhyme in blood.

  Immediately, Kopke took a photo with his cell phone. Not an easy task with the angles and distance, but he was determined. No objection from Wolfe. Reading from their position had been awkward enough. Kopke zoomed in on the photo and showed it to Sailor.

  The three of them read in silence:

  One for sailor, two for rules,

  Three for men who’re lost in clues,

  Four strummed notes for five bars,

  Six for swans, now silent, scarred,

  Seven for a box, eight, you’re late,

  Nine plus ten for Hannah And Kate.

  A long, uncomfortable, silence fell upon them.

  Sailor didn’t know about Kopke and Wolfe, but there was too much to read into the rhyme. To an extent he could not fathom. The previous murders celebrated the Colonnade’s ancient beliefs. Sure, they enjoyed their riddles and games, but this new case, it seemed too intricate and personal.

  He needed to find a starting point in the rhyme. In his experience, starting from the end and reverse-engineering words had always worked best. He read the last line again:

  Nine plus ten for Hannah And Kate.

  The word ‘And’ stood out. Why was the A capitalized?

  Not all of the blood had dried yet. The writing was riddled with splotches and splashes. Sailor had done finger painting with his daughter in the past and knew how hard it was to write in liquid, let alone within a time frame. He still needed a second opinion.

  “Kopke. Would you read it for me, please?”

  Kopke did. His reading matched Sailor’s, but then he stammered on the last sentence.

  “I’m not sure, Mr. Sailor, if it’s ‘And’ or ‘An’?” Kopke said. “The blood hasn’t dried cohesively in that spot. The letters N and D are deformed. They could be different letters for all I know.”

  “What word starts with a capital A and fits here?”

  Kopke considered, “To answer you, I need to know who Kate is?”

  “Good question. Could Hannah’s first name be Hannah-Kate?”

  “Her ID says Hannah Jurgen Holle. No Kate. Though Hannah-Kate is a common name,” Kopke said. “She may have removed it from legal documentations though. Some teenagers hate the double names. Old fashioned, you know.”

  ”She could have but it still doesn’t fit with the ‘And’ in the middle,” Sailor looked back at the actual mirror. It didn’t help interpret the letters any better. “Hannah-Ann-Kate?”

  “Hannah-Ann exists as well, but I’ve never seen a forename of three women before,” Kopke said.

  Sailor did though. But he wouldn’t explain Hannah’s bloodline of only women for centuries back. Not with these men. “Could you please let someone double check if Hannah’s mother or grandmother’s name is Ann or Kate?”

  “Sure, I’ll send a message to the department but it’s late. It could take up until tomorrow morning.”

  “Just give it a shot.”

  “What about Nine plus Ten?” Kopke said while texting.

  “Equals nineteen. Hannah’s age,” Sailor said. “The killer thinks he is smart.”

  “Well, I think he is,” Kopke pressed the send button. “That’s one hell of a puzzle. It's like something my dungeon master would come up with during Dungeons and Dragons.”

  Wolfe suddenly growled and snatched the phone from Kopke. “The real question is,” he tucked the phone inside his pocket. “What does ‘One for sailor’ mean, Mr. Sailor?”

  Sailor would have talked it over, but Wolfe was suddenly pointing a gun at him.

  Sailor had a feeling that Wolfe enjoyed it. A bored officer in a small town who may have never used his gun, and figured he now had permission to over-react, thinking he was in some movie.

  “Mr. Wolfe,” Kopke stepped up.

  “Shut up and stay where you are,” Wolfe looked stressed enough he might actually shoot someone. “I’ve had it with these games,” he told Sailor. “You’ve been discovering unbelievable stuff since you arrived. Stuff that no one else would even notice…”

  “Calm down, Dirty Harry,” Sailor said.

  “Shut up. You don’t get to speak unless you tell me who you are and how the killer knows about you.”

  Sailor couldn’t argue with that logic. Even Kopke stood silent.

  “I knew you were an imposter from the first moment you spoke that fake German accent of yours,” Wolfe said. ”Tomorrow I'll trace that call from the main police department in Munich. That woman who insisted on your visit had an accent as fake as yours, Sailor.”

  Sailor never doubted the efficacy of the language. Maybe Wolfe was smarter than he thought he was.

  “Here’s the deal,” Wolfe said. “Like the poem, I will count from one to ten. If you don’t tell me who you really are, I will lock you up until morning. Trust me, I have all the evidence I need to support my suspicion of your involvement in Hannah Holle's murder."

  Chapter 12

  The Bayer Watchtower, Lohr, Bavaria, Germany

  The man in the tower listened to his phone beeping again.

  He wished they would leave him alone. He checked it, though. It was his job, inherited from father and grandfathers before him.

  A message. The sender’s codename was Lollipop — the man’s was unimaginatively Gloves.

  Lollipop wrote: Things are heatin’ up, huh?

  Gloves: yeah, but I’m bored.

  Lollipop: that’s because you know what’s going to happen.

  Gloves: i guess, how about you?

  Lollipop: I’m on my way. Getting dressed.

  Gloves: haha, can’t wait to see you in that outfit.

  Lollipop: you don’t care about my outfit, you can’t wait to see Sailor on his knees.

  Gloves: man, that’s what keeps me up here in the cold of night. It’ll be an epic moment of dark melancholy.

  Lollipop: look, I know he has to suffer, but I admire him.

  Gloves: admire all you like. Tonight he’ll wish he had died and gone to hell.

  Lollipop: tonight we celebrate. The Colonnade invited you to the masquerade next week?

  Gloves: yeah, but I’m too lazy to go to France. Now stop messaging and go kill your target.

  Lollipop: going. Blue Blood Forever.

  Chapter 13

  The Spessart Museum, Lohr, Bavaria, Germany

  “So should I talk or shut up?” Sailor said. “Make up your mind.”

  “Four…” Wolfe counted.

  “If I were a suspect, why would I show up here?”

  “Five…”

  “Okay, let’s do it your way,” Sailor said. “Did you believe every word in the poem?”

  “Six…” Wolfe said.

  “Seven,” Sailor dared
him.

  “I’m the one who counts, not you,” Wolfe said. “Seven…”

  “I’d rather you think, not count,” Sailor said.

  “Eight…”

  “If the poem speaks the truth,” Sailor said. “What about the line that says, three for men who’re lost in clues? ”

  “Nine…”

  “The three men are us!” Kopke said. “The killer knew there would be three of us here. I wouldn’t be surprised if he is watching us now. He wants you to suspect Sailor. It’s a game, Mr. Wolfe.”

  Wolfe lowered his gun. His anger morphed into fear, and color drained from his chubby face. He glared at the ceiling and the walls. “He is watching us?”

  Kopke said, “I know it’s crazy but it’s possible.”

  “To my knowledge, the cameras are disabled,” Wolfe said. “Expensive to operate, you know?”

  Sailor didn't comment on the fact that security cameras were cheaper than security wages. This town had its flawed logic. “I wouldn’t waste time on trying to figure out if we’re being watched,” he said. “It’s of no help to Hannah. All we can do is solve the puzzle.”

  Sailor was fully aware that the puzzles were made for him personally, probably to break him down and throw a darker conclusion at him in the end, but he couldn’t explain that to the two cops at the moment. And he couldn’t stop investigating.

  “My phone, please?” Kopke said.

  “Sure,” Wolfe handed it over

  Kopke said, “ So One for sailor, that’s probably you Mr. Sailor. The killer expects you to solve the puzzle. Two for rules. He is telling us the rules, I suppose. Three for men who’re lost with clues means Mr. Wolfe and I are included. But what is four strummed notes for five bars?”

  “Bars means alcohol,” Wolfe said.

  “You really could use a beer to loosen up, Wolfe," Sailor said. “But you’re wrong.”

  “Jail bars?” Wolfe said.