CHAPTER TWO
2509 Words
CHAPTER TWO
Barcelona. Dr. Ilse Beck had come so far, and now she stood with her back to the Sagrada Familia—the sacred family. An old church, though not that old given European history. The same church that had been in the brochure she'd found, the same Sagrada Familia her father kept babbling about back in his German prison.
“I told you I could get us inside,” the tour guide was saying, his expression mischievous where he stood on the small, marble bridge over the mild stream. The faint sound of babbling water drifted over the buzz of pollen bees swarming the tulips in the garden beds.
Ilse studied the tour guide, glancing back in the direction of the old church. It was nearly a quarter mile in the distance. It had taken her a week, five visits and six tours to finally find a lead.
She looked back at the tour guide standing against the manicured landscape of the private garden. A manor settled the center of the landscaping beyond them both. A small, silver gate settled the edge of a tall hedgerow—the gate was now open thanks to the key in the tour guide's hand. He stepped along the marble bridge, pausing in the center and waiting for Ilse to join him.
The man was handsome, though a good ten years her senior. Ilse felt her insides churn with guilt as she studied the fellow. She hadn't been on a date in...
Well, ever.
This didn't count. Not really. The tour guide thought so, but it was the only way she had thought to get him alone. To ask him what she needed to. Granted, she hadn't said it was a date, she'd simply asked to be shown the private gardens he'd mentioned on more than one occasion while circling the old church.
“Well,” Sergi said, quirking an eyebrow on his tanned skin. “What do you think?” he spread his fingers in a flourish to indicate the beds of tulips and trimmed rose bushes as well as the wooden sculptures set throughout the garden.
“It's beautiful, just like you said,” Ilse replied, shifting uncomfortably and brushing her coal-black hair in front of her maimed ear.
“It's too warm for that,” the man said, waving towards her sweater. “Relax, allow yourself to breathe.” He flashed his million-dollar, Colgate smile.
Ilse tried to return it but left her sweater exactly where it was. She was sweating beneath it, but sweaters, sweatpants and the like were a staple of her wardrobe, and the only way she ever felt comfortable to venture out in public.
She didn't have pierced ears, nor did she wear makeup. Yet, in the past, she'd been told she had a sort of natural prettiness—not quite beauty, as her features were too youthful despite being in her early thirties. But men had shown interest in the past.
She'd simply never had the nerve to take them up on their offer. Besides, she refused to be so selfish. Dragging a poor, unsuspecting fellow into the nightmare that was her subconscious would've only caused pain.
Now, though, she'd made somewhat of an exception.
“This isn't a date,” she said, voicing her internal thoughts out loud. “I—just to be clear. I don't want to lead you on.”
The man on the bridge waved away the protest, snorting and turning to study the water. “Yes, yes, whatever you Americans like calling it, hmm? A one-night stand, huh?”
She winced. She'd never had one of those either. “No—I really meant it. I just need to speak with you.”
“You wanted to see the gardens, si?”
She glanced towards the flower beds and back. “I wanted to speak... to ask you about... about who gave you that.”
The man turned, frowning at her and watching where her finger pointed towards his throat. He swallowed, a rasping, guttural sound, causing the thin, white scar to rise and fall with the motion.
“You asked me to take you here to show you my scar?” he said, sounding mildly annoyed now.
“No—to tell me about the woman who gave it to you. You said she came on the tour a couple of years ago. The German woman.”
This, of course, was why Ilse had come all this way. She was on the hunt, just not for a man. Her stepmother, the woman who'd controlled her father, who'd manipulated Gerald Mueller. The true source of the horrors in that basement in the small, house hidden in the woods.
Ilse could barely remember the woman—she was a grayed-out memory in Ilse's subconscious more than anything. She didn't even have a name.
Yet.
But that was why she'd come to Barcelona, after all. And this tour guide had his own story... She'd heard it mentioned in whispers. And she'd arranged to speak with him in private to find out just how useful his information might be.
The tour guide turned on the marble bridge, extending his arms and resting his hands against the top of the rails. “Truly,” he murmured, “You're here over my scar? That's why you kept coming to my tour? Five times?”
“Six, actually,” Ilse murmured. She winced apologetically. “I didn't mean to lead you on. I just needed to speak with you alone.”
“And we're alone,” he said, raising his eyebrows hopefully.
“Not for... not like that...,” Ilse took a step onto the bridge, but maintained her distance, the fragrance of the flowers a redolent reminder of fresh air and perfume. “I... I had wanted to ask you in the break room. But there were so many people around. I didn't realize the church employed so many tour guides.”
“I see. Well,” he said, his tone somewhat harsher now that the prospect of getting Ilse out of her sweater was rapidly diminishing. “What about it? I don't have all day.” The warmth bled from his voice, replaced rapidly now by a frigid chill.
In part, Ilse had wanted to isolate the tour guide, to speak with him alone. But also... this was the garden the tour guide had been navigating two years ago during the incident. Only in whispered hushes and murmurs among the other guides at the church had Ilse heard anything substantial.
She'd traced the stories, listened to anyone who would speak. It had been crazy to come to Barcelona on a hunch. She knew that. Crazy to think in only a week she'd be able to find her stepmother.
But crazy sometimes met coincidence in a marriage of convenience.
“They... they say she was German,” Ilse pressed, studying the scowling man. “They say she was middle-aged, and she had a knife when she attacked you. Is it true she was from the Black Forest?”
“Who told you that?” snapped Sergi.
“I—I just heard.”
“It was Elena, wasn't it? That gabby bitch.”
“Look—I just need to know if it's true... What happened?”
“Like you said,” Sergi snapped, waving a hand and pushing off the rail of the bridge. “It happened years ago; I barely remember.”
“Only two years. They said she tried to kill you.”
“Hah! She threatened me. Not killed.”
“So it did happen!” Ilse exclaimed. “And was she German? Did she come from Freiburg near the Black Forest, like they said?” The same town her father was from. The same town near where they were keeping him incarcerated. Only rumors, so far, pieced together over time. It had all started with an offhand comment from one of the other tour guides. After Ilse's third visit, the tour guide had said, “Another German frequently visiting. I hope you're not going to try and kill Sergi as well!”
The guide had said it as a joke, but Ilse had questioned the woman about the comment.
Another German woman, two years ago, had visited the church. Had come nearly every day. And then... according to the rumors, had attacked Sergi Vlachos. The woman, it was rumored, had also been from Freiburg. A small town, not known for international travel. The odds were so slim...
“I don't remember. It doesn't matter anyway.” Sergi was now brushing past her, and moving back towards the small, silver gate in the hedge, his disgust clearly visible in every hasty footfall.
“Please,” Ilse said, keeping her distance, her feet solidly planted on the bridge. “I need to know.”
He glanced back at her, frowning, standing near a tall bed of red tulips. He turned, scratching at his neck absentmindedly, and shrugging. “It was two years ago. I won't remember much.”
“The woman in question,” Ilse said, “was she German?”
“Yes. So what?”
“And she was from Freiburg?”
“I don't know that.”
“Elena said she was.”
“Ha! So it was Elena!”
Ilse rested her hand against the cool, dusty marble railing. “That's not the point. This woman—what did she look like?”
“She was old. Maybe fifteen years older than me,” Sergi said with a shrug. He began to turn, moving towards the silver gate again. Only now did Ilse hasten after him, stray pebbles skipping as she hurried down the garden path.
“What else!”
“I don't know,” he snapped. He'd reached the gate now, and held it open, gesturing for Ilse to step through. “It isn't nice,” he said, “to get a man's hopes up, you know.”
“I never said it was a date,” Ilse returned, rubbing at one arm and hunching her shoulders as she slipped back out onto the asphalt driveway.
“The two of us in a private tulip garden... A man doesn't normally think you're going to ask about a crazy lady attacking him.”
“So she did attack you?”
“Barely,” he scoffed. “I was fine. She barely hurt me.”
“What about the scar?” Ilse pointed.
He snorted, turning and marching up the driveway now, back in the direction of the Sagrada Familia.
“Sergi,” she called, “Please. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.”
“The lady wanted my keys,” he retorted back. But continued moving away from her. “I refused to give them. She threatened me with a knife. So I gave them.”
“That... that's all?”
“No” he snapped, whirling around near the bumper of his car. “Not all. She then used the keys to sneak into the church at night. I nearly lost my job.”
Ilse winced sympathetically. “Why did she need to go into the church.”
“Oh?” he looked suddenly surprised, his eyebrows arching. “Elena didn't tell you that? Psh—typical.”
Ilse frowned. “Why was she in the church?”
“To kill herself, of course. They found her body the next day in the belfry.”
Ilse gaped. “They—they what?”
“She killed herself,” Sergi repeated, eyes narrowed. He opened his car door, holding it apart as if braced against some unseen force. “Burned herself alive. People could hear the screams in the streets. They found her burnt corpse in the morning.”
“I don't believe you,” Ilse said reflexively. “It's not possible. She can't be dead.”
“She is. They found her body. Look!” Sergi lifted his phone, typed something then jutted it towards her with a motion like swatting a fly.
Ilse stared at the headline—which had been translated roughly into English. Woman Self-Immolates in Sagrada Familia.
She read the first paragraph, her eyes gaping, her fingers trembling where they rested on her upper thighs.
Woman found burnt in the Sacred Family church of Barcelona. No identification discovered. Police rule it suicide...
Her eyes skipped to the next paragraph, but Sergi seemed to have had enough. He yanked his phone back, jamming it in his pocket, shaking his head. “Now—this has been a thoroughly unpleasant experience. Thanks for nothing. Probably best you walk back.” He slipped into the car, slammed the door, and refused to look in Ilse's direction.
For her part, she stood, stunned on the asphalt, gaping after the man.
It wasn't possible. She didn't believe it. Her stepmother had killed herself two years ago? It didn't make sense... None at all. But if not a suicide, what? Whose remains had been found in the church? Why had her father's mistress been here at all in the first place?
Ilse blinked and only realized then that the car was peeling away from the drive leading up to the old manor and the manicured gardens. She stared after the retreating car, the angry taillights glaring, as the tour guide returned in the direction of the church.
Her stepmother had assaulted the man. Stolen his keys. Then... then someone had died, burned, in the church.
But it couldn't be her stepmother, could it?
Who was sending her those postcards? Who was the one taunting her with tchotchkes from her past? Someone who knew her name...
Her father? She'd already determined it couldn't be him. At least, not him alone. Someone was helping Gerald Mueller.
She'd assumed she'd find the answers in Barcelona.
But now... now she faced another dead end.
Ilse let out a painful little sigh of frustration. She stared across the old roads, in the direction of the Sagrada Familia.
There'd been nothing sacred about her own family. Nothing at all.
She'd come all this way for nothing. She'd been absent from her new apartment for more than a week now. There were only so many days she could take off from work.
Would there be another package waiting for her when she got back?
If so... her stepmother had to still be alive. Or else her father had been acting when she'd visited him in prison. Someone, something from her past was haunting her.
But the dead ends kept piling up.
She couldn't see through the haze or ash.
Would there be another taunting message back at home? Perhaps she wouldn't find what she'd need in Barcelona. She'd research the death, of course... But how far would that take her? Her mind wandered towards another potential connection.
Would there be a postcard waiting for her? Maybe she'd spooked the sender... Maybe this would all be over soon.
Or maybe it was just getting started.
- Writer
