With a motherly smile, she shook her head. “You’re not that old.”
“Old as dirt. If you only knew what I was once capable of.” And what I’m still capable of, from this very bed, the global reach this old man still has…
Olga tidied his blankets and fluffed a fresh pillow. “I believe you. I’ve heard all sorts of interesting tales about your business dealings.”
“It wasn’t so long ago, Olga, that I worked eighteen hours a day. Sometimes more.”
“What fabulous energy.”
“It wasn’t just that.”
She stopped what she was doing and tilted her head. “So, what haven’t I heard?”
“It’s all the things people don’t know.”
“Such as?”
He shook his head, checking his ego. “Never you mind.”
“What are you referring to?”
Karl said nothing.
She touched his forehead again. “Are you sure you feel well?”
“Fine,” he said dismissively.
One of the most difficult challenges in life is the loss of power—and Karl Vogel, an immensely powerful man, felt the drain on this night. Still, if he could just tell her about the activities he still controlled, the wealth he continued to amass—his clout. Instead, he bit his tongue and silently wished Olga would leave. His boasting was a sign of weakness and, like so many other power moves he’d made, it shamed him afterward.
Olga checked his water and tucked in the sheets at the base of the bed. “Do you need anything else?”
“Perhaps you could get word to Thomas,” he said, referring to the estate caretaker. “I can’t reach the lamp with ease anymore. I wonder if he might somehow fashion a light switch here at my bed controls. Have him come by later this morning.”
Karl didn’t tell her that he also planned to have Thomas bring him a pistol—his favorite, an 1879 Reyse revolver that would knock a man down like a right hook from Max Schmeling, the world renowned boxer who’d once dined in this very manor.
“I’ll have Thomas come right over after you’ve had your breakfast,” she said. Olga narrowed her eyes. “You’re sure everything’s okay?”
“Yes. Go back to bed.”
“You don’t need to go to the bathroom?”
“No, damn it,” he snapped, his trademark venom bursting forth.
Olga’s eyes drifted downward. “Sleep well, Herr Vogel.”
He nearly apologized. Nearly.
After Olga turned off the light switch and departed, Karl rested his head back into the cool pillow, shutting his eyes and envisioning the murmuring brook behind his boyhood home. Karl liked to think back to when he and his sisters and friends played down in the brook. It didn’t matter how cold it was, they’d come up with a hundred games, all of them centering around splashing in that tiny stream. Back then, there’d been no problems, no worries, no complicated deals and evil doers. It was a joyous time, long before he’d developed into a man and he’d become inflamed by his lust for more. Back then, it was just the Vogel children and their friends, romping in the sweet waters of the brook.
Thoughts of the brook worked, just like always. Sleep began to wash over him. Other than making money, few things helped him to feel good these days, but sleep was one of them. Languid, lovely sleep.
And later this morning, he’d enjoy his single daily cup of strong black coffee as he read Das Handelsblatt. There were still pleasures to be found in life, despite his—
Click.
Karl’s eyes snapped open. The click had come from his right, from the closet door. He turned to look—the lighter colored silhouette had returned.
Mein Gott! Why didn’t I have Olga check the closet?
He fumbled under the blanket for the call button.
Before he could find it, he felt the bed depress as an arm leaned over the rail and onto the mattress. A hand pressed roughly over Karl’s mouth. Then, shockingly, the person climbed over the rail and into his bed, sitting on his midsection. The pressure was painful and made his breathing difficult. His unwanted visitor used a single hand and easily tucked both of Karl’s arms under their knees while continuing to cover Karl’s mouth.
Judging by the strength, Karl believed this person to be a man.
Then, after a moment of shifting, Karl felt the slightest of skin pricks on the side of his throat. He knew what the man was doing. With his free hand, he’d given Karl an injection. The needle was close enough to his ear that he could hear the fluid rushing into his vein. It seemed to be a sizeable quantity of liquid.
Karl didn’t know for sure who was sitting on top of him. He suspected, but he couldn’t be sure. If it were who he thought, why now—why tonight?
Was it a man? Perhaps not. Perhaps it was, indeed, a woman. A strong woman.
In a matter of seconds, the burning began. It started in his neck, at the site of the injection, and ran to his chest and heart. The intensity grew. Oh, how his neck and chest burned—searing lava surging through his veins.
The killer climbed off of him and pulled the blankets away. There was a pause. Then, in one deft motion, the killer sliced off Karl’s penis.
Before he died, Karl identified his killer. It was quite easy because, after the final action, his killer leaned down to Karl’s ear and whispered a vile condemnation that ended with the promise of Karl’s burning in hell forever.
Karl lived only a few minutes more. Though he didn’t believe in heaven or hell, he knew which direction he’d be headed if such places existed.
Later that morning, Karl Vogel, wealthy German landowner and entrepreneur, was pronounced dead by his personal physician. The cause of death was congestive heart failure. It had been coming for many years, the grieving
