* * *
Back at the manor house, the burden of the situation finally weighed down on Gage. Karl Vogel had been a monster, and his sickness had created this generational tornado that had destroyed countless lives over many, many years. And while Gage now understood how Karl had met his demise—which Gage believed to be most deserved and justified—it did little to assuage his worry for Katja.
Sheriff was clearly concerned. He eyed his master with a cocked head. Gage wasn’t himself, and the dog knew it.
“It’s alright,” Gage muttered.
He staggered to his bedroom, despondent and forlorn. There, with Sheriff beside him, he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts on Katja. Although such thoughts were torturous, he tried to envision her accident.
As Gage recalled, it was cloudy last night, with no moonlight. The mountain road would have been pitch black. She’d have probably been listening to music. Perhaps she was headed back home in hopes of seeing Gage. In her rearview mirror, a pair of headlights would have gotten her attention. The car drew closer. No big deal. Her car was an AMG Mercedes. She’d have pressed on the accelerator, expecting to leave them in the dust.
But the trail car stayed with her—in fact, it closed in.
This is when Katja’s fear would have spiked. Adrenaline would have coursed through her veins. Her palms would have begun to sweat. Perhaps she’d have driven the Mercedes harder. Or, conversely, slowed down to let the tailgater pass.
Neither would have worked.
On the twisting, winding roads that navigated the Taunus Mountains, the car behind Katja’s would have quickly drawn in, a cheetah on the hunt. Perhaps Katja screamed at the first impact. Perhaps she’d not known how to react.
But in her time of fear, she’d have fought to maintain control. Her Mercedes fishtailed, drifting to the left. That’s the precise moment when the killer performed a modified PIT maneuver on her Mercedes, tapping her right rear quarter panel and sending her careening out over the edge, tumbling, rolling.
And, as far as the killer was concerned—dying.
Due to the construction of the Mercedes, Katja would have been protected for a time. But no car is completely safe. Despite the airbags and the rigid frame of the Mercedes, her delicate body would have been battered with each tumble. At some point, her head smashed against the window, causing near-fatal swelling in her brain.
During that tumble, Gage couldn’t help but wonder about her thoughts.
Did they center on sheer fear?
Did she wonder who the person was driving the other car?
Did she know?
And where was Katja coming from?
Had the driver followed her?
Was this somehow related to Karl Vogel?
And who killed Il Magnifico?
And who tried to run down Gage at the Frankfurt International Airport?
Gage would wager his life that Thomas had nothing to do with any of the peripheral nefarious activities.
Unlike after Monika died, Gage didn’t cry this time. Thankfully, Katja wasn’t dead. She was alive, for now. There was hope. Because of the hope, Gage didn’t recite verses of revenge. He didn’t call Colonel Hunter. He didn’t run away. No, he simply laid there on top of his bed, allowing his mind to bounce off in every direction.
Gage’s hypothesis this entire time had revolved around someone who was in an illicit business with Karl Vogel. But since Thomas was the killer of Vogel, then who had gone after Gage at the airport? And why?
Why was Gage a threat? And to whom? Who viewed Gage as someone who needed to die?
Foremost on Gage’s mind was Rainer Schulz, the reclusive mogul from Berlin. Gage recalled the man’s piercing eyes and his hardness. He was a man accustomed to having his way, by any means.
And, of course, he’d been arrested this morning.
Gage turned on a cable news channel and awaited the story on Rainer Schulz. They finally showed it as the second headline story, just past the top of the hour, repeating what Gage had already heard earlier. Using the DVR, he replayed the segment, again and again.
The piece included a brief video clip of Rainer Schulz being moved to the federal facility in handcuffs.
The old man appeared to be incensed.
It almost provided Gage with a tiny shred of satisfaction.
Almost.
Because somewhere deep in the fiber of Gage’s being, something told him that Rainer Schulz wasn’t the person who’d tried to kill him, and Katja—and wasn’t the person who’d succeeded in killing Il Magnifico.
No.
If Gage were to trust his instinct, it was someone else. But he didn’t have any idea who.
Well…perhaps a sliver of an idea.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Early the following morning, Gage departed well before the sun for the ride to the St. Vincenz Krankenhaus in Limburg. He rode with the windows down for several minutes, allowing the icy cold to awaken him and sharpen his senses. When three kilometers had passed, he shut the windows in the Audi. Gage felt good, focused. Today was going to be a big day. He could sense it. As he merged onto Autobahn 5, Gage utilized the Audi’s resident Bluetooth technology and phoned Boris.
“G’morning, Gage,” Boris mumbled. He sounded as if he might have been sleeping.
“I wake you?”
“Goodness no. I was just laying here…you know.”
“Sleeping?”
“I guess. How about you? You sleep?”
“A little.”
Gage allowed a brief amount of chitchat before he went silent.
Boris took the cue. “Anything new happen overnight?”
“Yeah, you might say that, Boris. I learned—concretely—that neither Katja nor Ina killed their father.”
Boris was awake now. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“Well…who was it?”
“I can’t tell you that, Boris. But it wasn’t them.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“Absolutely, one-hundred percent. I got a confession and all, including a look at the syringe that was used.”
