Not Like This (An Ilse Beck FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 4)

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

No recognition. The man inside the cell scratched at his chin, peculiarly. He folded his hands in front of him. His blonde hair was now white. His wide face sunken. He no longer stood straight and proud, but hunched, moving with a bit of a limp. She wondered if this new limp was a gift he'd received in prison or simply from age.

He was thinner, shorter, smaller than she remembered. A pitiful man. A broken old man. And clearly, by the blank look in his twitching eyes, he didn't recognize her. "Hello," he said, in a shaky voice. "I was busy."

She just stared, her throat suddenly dry. For a moment it felt like she'd fallen into a dark hole and couldn't see anything but a face staring down at her. She remembered the time her father had tried to bury her alive. Remembered the time he'd cut her ear. She flinched, and he just watched her, head tilted now.

"I'm sorry for bothering you," she said, robotically, her voice entirely devoid of emotion.

The man inside the cell just shrugged, his hands still folded primly in front of him. He adjusted his bathrobe. "Can I help you?"

Now it was her turn to go quiet and stare. Could he help her? How she wished he'd offered that twenty-five years ago. Help. But no one had helped. No one had known. Not the neighbors. Not anyone. At least that's what they'd said. But Ilse remembered what her sister had told her. Heidi, one of the other children trapped in that basement, had found Ilse in Seattle. Had even tried to kill her. And before she'd died, taunting, Heidi had hinted at another person in the house. Not just their father. A second person upstairs.

Ilse pictured the postcards. The small porcelain dolls. The taunting letters. She knew it had to be her father. This man, this small, disheveled, shriveled man. Even as she thought it, she felt a bolt of sympathy. What an odd emotion. Did he deserve sympathy? Surely not.

"Yes," she said, softly. "I could use your help."

"Very well," he replied. "What is this about?"

He spoke matter-of-factly, his voice gentle, and not unkind. It was as if he were used to visits from strange doctors he didn't recognize. That bothered her most. He couldn't seem to place who she was. The way he spoke didn't compute with the man she remembered. He had the same wide face, though shrunken, the same parted hair, though white-gray like his bathrobe. Even the same light speech pattern. But she remembered far more often when he grew enraged. She remembered his anger.

Which was strange. Because now, facing him, all she really felt was pity. For a moment, she looked away from the man's pale face; it offered nothing new. It hadn't conjured the horrible memories she'd expected. It hadn't brought back hatred or rage. He just looked old, small. Helpless. He had no possessions she could see. Save a single shelf which had a book on it. She couldn't make out the title from here. And on the book, she hesitated, staring. A small wooden doll. For a moment, she stared at the doll. It had button eyes and too much glue keeping red yarn for hair.

She remembered the doll.

Remembered stopping at a shop. Remembered her father getting out of the car, happy. Almost childlike. Eager to get another toy for his collection. And then she remembered the third voice. The one in the front seat next to her father. For a moment Ilse shivered, staring into her own memories. Hilda Mueller had sat in the backseat pleading to be allowed out of the car for a change. Her father, eager to go shopping paused, looking ready to relent.

And then... the third voice. "You can get a bigger doll if you leave the brat in the backseat."

Such a strange memory. And in that moment, Ilse felt a bolt of sheer terror. But this fear, and this memory, hadn't come from her father. It had come from that third voice. A grayish face, just like all the other gray. Ilse couldn't see it, encased in shadows in the front seat. The figure was holding some sort of brochure, fanning her face with it. Ilse remembered the way her hand had been tied to the seatbelt. And the fear, the wild, unrelenting fear shooting through her system didn't originate from her father. No. It was because of this other voice.

"Gerald, the brat is staring at me. You want a big doll or not?"

Her father glanced in the mirror. He frowned. And for a moment, it almost looked like he had an expression of guilt. But then he nodded, his neat, blonde hair swishing.

"Her hand," the voice murmured. "Look at her fingers. The way she's clutching at that seatbelt. It's inappropriate, Gerald. Do something about her fingers."

Ilse's heart had leapt in her chest. More fear at this voice. And then, his eyes still laden with guilt, her father had reached back towards her, reaching to grab one of her fingers.

The memory ended in a flash of pain, a sudden scream.

Ilse was back standing in the hall, staring into the cell with the man.

A second person.

She barely remembered them. The memory itself had blocked out the face, hiding it. An extremely common repression tact—the subconscious choosing to forget the more traumatic aspects of a recollected scene... Stunningly, in this memory, it wasn't her father.

Ilse's mouth felt so dry now as she stared into the cell. She reached up, absentmindedly, brushing her hair in front of her maimed ear. She had dark hair, cut short, shoulder length at best, and now she brushed her hair, but instead of pushing it behind her ear, she smoothed it forward, hiding the injury on the side of her face.

As she did, the man inside the cell suddenly flinched. He stared at the way her fingers twitched, the way they flicked her dark locks. His eyes suddenly widened. And then, in an instant, with a scream, he bolted forward, his hand shooting forward, jutting out the cell door through the metal slot. Skeletal fingers groped at her face. Ilse yelped, stumbling back. The guards shouted incoherently. Her father was screaming, desperately, a shrill, high-pitched screech of madness. "The sacred family is back!" he yelled. "I promise, I'll find her. I'll find little Hilda. I will. Please, please don't. I'll find her!"

The demon from her memories was alive, once more, screeching, his fingers scrambling desperately through the slot in the metal; he didn't seem to care about where his arm was now cut, scraping against the sharp metal. Blood began to stream in rivulets down his forearm. The guard was quickly shoving Ilse safely out of the way. She stumbled again, resisting the urge to sink to her knees. She stared, indignation and fury rising to meet the demon inside the cell. This was the man she knew. The quiet, gentle fellow was gone. The man the neighbors had seen had disappeared. A frenzied, chaotic individual stared back, bleeding from the tips of his fingers now, red droplets flicking towards the floor as if even his blood was trying to reach her.

She wanted to scream, wanted to say something. She began to speak, "You're a monster," she said. "We were just children. Just children."

"A sacred family," he retorted. "I'll bring her back. I'll find little Hilda. I will." He was wailing now, screaming. The sound of rapid footfalls suggested more guards were rushing down the hall. Ilse wanted to say something further, to yell at her father, to shout back. But it was no use. His eyes were vacant. Dark, lost. Now that he had no power, she just pitied him. She still couldn't picture this strange gray face in her memories.

Shivering and turning, she refused to look back towards where her father's arm groped through the cell door in her direction. Stiffly, and picking up the pace, she began to march down the hall away, away. Gray halls. Gray walls. Gray bathrobes.

She was sick of it all. She needed to get out. Why had she even come? She needed to leave. As she hurried away, one of the guards caught up with her; she glanced back to spot three others crowding around her father's door trying to calm him. More voices, mutterings, moaning came from the other doors. Hands were knocking on the inside of the metal, like more demons trying to get out. She needed to leave.

The guard who'd caught up with her brusquely stepped at her side and said, "You can't go unaccompanied in the prison."

"I'm leaving," she retorted.

The guard nodded, and took a few steps ahead of her, leading the way back towards the main room. As they hurried, Ilse felt her pocket buzz.

For one wild moment, irrationally, she wondered if her father had somehow gotten her number. But of course, he wouldn't have a phone in prison.

And how would he have sent postcards? Porcelain dolls? The man in there was not a sane man. And he hadn't recognized her at all. Not until she'd brushed her hair. Which meant what?

She shivered, feeling her phone vibrate again. She pulled the device out, stared, and realized she'd missed three calls from Donovan Mitchell. Dr. Mitchell was her old mentor. She could picture his Santa Claus beard and smiling eyes. Pictured his prosthetic arm which rested on any surface, tapping whenever he was deep in thought. She stared at the missed calls, and then spotted a text message.

She allowed the guard to lead her out of the hall, through the metal doors, back into the main atrium.

She read the message.

Call me.

Hand shaking, Ilse was escorted back through the metal detectors as if they were keen to be rid of her; she nodded towards the guard behind the glass partition, but then lifted her phone and dialed. Her fingers were still trembling, her spine shivering... She needed to get away. Away. She hurried towards the sliding doors, away...away...far away from that monster in his cell.

Donovan Mitchell was something of a father figure to her. So very different than the man she now left behind.

So very different than all of this.

She stepped through the metal detectors one foot at a time with hesitant, jolting motions.

And then she heard a guard behind her say, "If there's anything else we can do for the Bureau, make sure you do contact BKA first so we can..."

His voice trailed off, or, more accurately, Ilse's attention did.

She stood, nodding pleasantly, phone to her cheek. And then turned, heading back towards the sliding door.

She moved like a zombie. Only half attentive. What had been the point of all that?

The phone rang once. Twice.

On the third ring, a familiar tone answered. "Ilse?"

She swallowed, hesitated. "Dr. Mitchell?"

"Ilse is that you?

She stood for a moment, one foot inside the prison, the other through the sliding doors out on the marble steps. A cool gust of wind rushed in from the parking lot. She closed her eyes for a moment, ignoring the sound of the doors attempting to slide shut before opening again. She straddled the line between the free world and the incarcerated one.

"Ilse, I know you're away," Dr. Mitchell's soft voice echoed through the speaker, “But I have something I need to show you."

She kept her eyes closed, inhaling through her nose, pretending, for a brief moment, she was somewhere else.

Anywhere else.

He'd recognize the gesture with her ear. Recognized her when she'd brushed her hair.

I'll bring her back.

What had he meant by that?

"Dr. Mitchell?" She said, hesitantly. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"Maybe it's best to tell you in person."

She hesitated. Her eyes opened. She spotted the guards near the metal detectors watching where she stood, frowning. She took a quick step out onto the stairs, allowing the glass doors to swing shut. Ahead of her rested a parking lot and another metal fence with more guards.

"I see," she said. "You want to tell me something?" It felt like her mind was rushing to try and keep up.

"Yes. But it's best I do it in person. How soon can you fly back?"

She blinked, hesitant, staring across the barbed wire and the concrete surrounding the gray building beneath the gray skies. She needed some color. She was sick of all of it.

"I-is it important?"

A pause. A swallow. And then, hesitantly, "I think you should just see for yourself."

Dr. Mitchell was not a man to play fast and loose with another person's time.

She blinked, then said, "All right. I got what I came for anyway."

"You did?"

She hesitated, glancing back towards the sliding glass doors and then taking a step down the stairs. "Maybe," she said. "I'll be back on the next flight out. I'll see you soon, Donovan."