“I’ve made sure that someone will come and look for me if I don’t report back,” I remind him huskily.
“Give me your phone, Linda.”
“No.”
“What I’ve told you is only meant for you,” he says. “It’s true what you said earlier — you more than deserve the truth. It was only fair to tell you what you wanted to know. But now give me your phone.”
He gets up. I stand too, and back away a few steps. I could make a dash for the stairs, but I know he’d be quicker and I don’t want him behind me — him and that heavy ashtray.
“Okay,” I say.
I put my hand under my jumper and pull out the phone. Lenzen’s body relaxes. What follows happens quickly. I don’t stop to think. I make a dive for the windows, fling one open and hurl the phone out in a high arc. It lands somewhere in the grass. A hot pain grips my arm. I turn around.
And find myself looking into Lenzen’s cold eyes.
33
For such a long time I had only one wish: to find Anna’s murderer. Now that I’m standing face-to-face with him and everything has been said, I want something else.
I want to live.
But there’s no way out of here. With two short steps, Lenzen has blocked the way to the front door, and the balcony is out of the question. Nevertheless, I fling open the door and step outside. A cool wind brushes my face. Another two steps and I’m at the balustrade.
I can’t go any further. Looking down, I can make out the lawn in the dark and, beyond it, the road where the taxi stopped. It’s too far to jump. No escape. I hear a metallic noise and sense Lenzen behind me.
I turn to face him — can’t believe my eyes. He’s crying.
“Why didn’t you stay in your house, Linda?” he asks. “I’d never have done anything to you.”
In his hand he’s holding a gun. I stare at him aghast. He can’t get away with that. People will hear the shots, especially here, in this quiet residential area. How can he possibly hope to get away with it?
“The police will be here almost the second you pull the trigger,” I say.
“I know,” Lenzen replies.
I don’t understand what’s going on. I look into the muzzle. I’m stunned — as if hypnotized. It looks exactly like my pistol — the one I threatened him with, the one he ended up throwing in the lake. My synapses click as it becomes clear to me.
“You recognize it,” says Lenzen.
It is my gun. There’s nothing in the lake at all. I see it before me — Lenzen’s arm moving through the darkness, making to throw but not letting go. Lenzen dropping the gun somewhere, unnoticed — on the grass, perhaps — to be picked up again later, unobserved, just in case. Canny. Quick-witted. He can’t have planned that. It practically fell into his lap — a gun, procured by me illegally and covered in my fingerprints.
“That’s my gun,” I say feebly. Lenzen nods.
“It was self-defense,” he says. “You’re clearly mad. You had me followed, you had me watched. You threatened me — I have that on tape. And now you turn up in my house with a gun. There was a tussle…”
“Did you ever intend to leave the country?” I ask.
Lenzen shakes his head. I understand at last. It was a trick to make sure I came here. In a rush. In a panic. Before the night was over. A simple and elegant trick to lure me to his house and get rid of me at last. With my own gun.
A trap is a device to catch or kill.
The trap that Victor Lenzen set for me is masterly.
He’s got me. I can’t get away now. But his gun hand is trembling.
“Don’t do it,” I say.
I think of Anna.
“I have no choice,” Lenzen replies. His forehead is beaded with sweat.
“We both know that’s not true,” I say.
I think of Norbert, of Bukowski.
“But it sounds like the truth,” says Lenzen. His upper lip twitches.
“Please, don’t do it!”
“Be quiet, Linda.”
I think of Mum and Dad.
“If you do this, you really are a murderer.”
I think of Julian.
“Shut up!”
Then I have only one thought: I’m not going to die here.
I turn around, clear the parapet of the balcony with one leap, and fall.
I land heavily. It’s not like in a film. I don’t roll over and hobble away; I come crashing down and my right ankle is gripped by such intense pain that for a moment it’s as if I’m blinded, and I crouch there on all fours like a wounded animal, confused and almost sightless with fear. I shake my head, trying to drive away the dazed feeling. Then I look about me, expecting to see Lenzen standing at the balustrade, looking down at me. But there’s no one there. Where is he?
Then I hear him. Oh God, how long have I been crouching here? I try to get up, but my right leg lets me down, giving way.
“Help,” I scream. But no sound comes out. I realize that I’ve landed in one of my own nightmares — that I’ve dreamt this so often, whimpering and drenched in sweat, this dream where I scream and scream and no sound comes out. Again, I try to get up, and this time I succeed.
I hop on my good leg, stumble, catch my fall on my bad leg, whimper with pain, go down on my knees, can’t go on, but must go on, crawl along, blind and scared, through the darkness. Then I see him, before me. I don’t know how he did it; he should be behind me, coming from the house, but he’s coming from ahead; he emerges from the darkness without warning and comes toward me. I ignore my pain and stand up. I see only his silhouette, the gun in his hand, and stand to face him.
He’s a shadow, a mere shadow. He looks about him frantically. And then he’s near enough for me to recognize him.
The sight of him catches me like a punch. I totter, my leg gives way again, and I fall to the ground. Then he’s beside me, bending over me. His worried face, his different-colored eyes in the darkness. Julian.
“My God, Linda,” he says. “Are you injured?”
“He’s here,” I croak. “Lenzen. My sister’s murderer. He has a gun.”
“Stay where you are,” says Julian. “Keep calm.”
At that moment, Lenzen comes around the side of the house. When he realizes I’m not alone, he stops in his tracks, in the dark.
“Police!” Julian shouts. “Drop the gun!”
Lenzen stands there — still a mere shadow. Then, in a single, swooping movement, he lifts his hand to his head and shoots.
He drops to the ground.
Then it falls very quiet.
From the rough draft of Blood Sisters by Linda Conrads Nina Simone (not included in the published edition)
One evening, he stood outside her door, unannounced.
She had asked him in. She had poured them some wine. He had asked how she was, and she’d replied that she was okay: it was going to be all right and she didn’t want to complain. They sat on her sofa, Jonas at one end, Sophie at the other, and Sophie’s puppy between them, frisky and impetuous. They laughed and drank, and for a few precious moments, Sophie forgot about Britta and the shadow. Eventually the dog was worn out from playing and fell asleep. Sophie got up to turn over the record they had been listening to. When the music had started up again, bubbly and electronic, and Sophie had sat down again, she looked searchingly at Jonas, who was finishing his second glass of wine.
“Why are we doing this?” Sophie asked.
“What?”
Jonas glanced at her with his strange, beautiful eyes.
“All this! Always seeking each other’s company, although you’re still married and I’ve only just broken off my engagement and am an emotional wreck…” She faltered and ran her hand through her hair. “Why do you pretend you can’t ring me up but have to tell me everything in person? Why do I sit around on your steps at night? Why do you hang around outside my front door? Isn’t it unwise of us to want to plunge straight into something else?”