The small dead-end forest road, partially grown over with young alder sprouts, ended in a patch of wild blackberries. He decided that this was a good place to leave the car. His mother's favorite berry patch back in Germany looked much like this. While his mother picked for a pie, he and his brothers would eat their fill and play hide-and-seek amongst the thorns. Those were easier days.
When he stepped from the car the ground was soft with moisture. There was a chill in the air because the coastal fog was at least 20 road miles farther inland than usual this morning. The green of the forest had grown in an arch over the little road, and even if there had been sun it would have been obscured. Usually a stranger to the forest, Hans didn't like being surrounded by a thousand hiding places.
Just through the woods from Ghost Lane, as he now called it, he knew he would find the home of Corey Schneider. But this forest was somewhat problematic. He was near enough to the coast that the cut-over second- growth forests contained a fair number of dense brush patches. Using his compass to do a little figuring, he deduced that one such thicket lay directly in the line of travel.
Flipping the brass compass shut, he was pondering whether to avoid the brush by going left up a hill, or right down into a gulch, when he felt something at the back of his head. He knew it was a gun-even before he heard her words.
'Put your hands on your head. Berry pickers don't come out here in a Mercedes with new leather.'
The thought that she had walked up on him so easily terrified him. She was good.
'Pleased to make your acquaintance.'
'That won't last,' she said dryly. 'Now take off the head gear.'
'Once I do that, you'll have to die. You know there's an endless supply of guys like me.'
'I should worry that they'll send another dumb shit in a Mercedes, followed by another? What are you doing here?'
'I came to talk to you.'
'With a mask and a gun?'
'Next time I'll bring flowers.'
'You're the Kraut on the phone, aren't you?'
'What phone?'
'Imagine having your scrotum slit open, your eyes gouged out, and your tongue rolled around in garlic, onion, and flour, then fried in olive oil. Can you picture that?'
'What's your point?'
'I'm serving a blind man's tongue and balls with tartar sauce if I don't get some answers. And you're going to eat them one little piece at a time.'
'Next question.'
Suddenly his head felt like it had exploded. A few seconds disappeared on him, and he was on his knees with blood wetting his stocking cap. His temple throbbed and he felt nauseated.
A voice whispered in his ear. 'I say when the next question comes. First you answer the last question or I'm gonna string you up and I'm going to take this knife-' Through blurred vision he could see a wicked-looking skinning knife with a long, curved blade turning slowly in her hand. '-and I'm going to cut you where the sun don't shine.'
His head spun and he felt like he might lose consciousness. He didn't doubt that she would do everything she threatened, and more. Up until this moment his fright had been tempered. Being a cautious and thorough man, he had hired Garcia, a cocky young Spaniard, to watch his back. Garcia always rode a motorcycle unless the job required a car. Suddenly it occurred to him that if Garcia hadn't arrived by now, perhaps she had somehow found him first
'Maybe we could make a deal,' he said, stalling for time.
'I'd rather watch her cut your balls off,' a voice interjected.
Hans could feel Corey Schneider whirl. By the time he got turned around, he saw Garcia with a submachine gun leveled at Corey's middle. Corey's gun was aimed in Garcia's direction, but his body was almost completely bidden behind a tree.
'Drop the gun,' Hans said. 'That Uzi will saw you in half and we won't be able to have our little talk.'
Corey Schneider dropped the gun.
Hans shook his head, trying to get rid of the dizzy feeling. Slowly he stood. 'It would be pointless to beat the shit out of you,' he said. 'But I'm going to do it anyway.'
Corey never actually lost consciousness, but she became confused and sick. She couldn't recall how many times she'd thrown up. There was something scientific about the beating. It was calculated and brutal, but not deadly and not disfiguring. Most of the blows, other than a dozen open-handed slaps, were delivered to her torso and kidneys. At first she could tighten her muscles as a means of protection, but eventually she was a lifeless punching bag. She craved unconsciousness, but it wouldn't come.
There was an intermission to this beating when they marched her to the house. It resumed in her living room, where she noticed that she felt hot, as if she had a fever. Oddly, she recalled being grateful that there was no blood. When they stopped, she was lying facedown on the couch with one hand touching the floor. It was her father's plaid couch, and the crisscrossing of the red and greens seemed to add to her nausea. She closed her eyes. Letting her mind wander down her right arm to her hand, she didn't think anything was broken. She did the same for the left arm lying at her side.
Her right leg was bent at the knee but didn't seem unnaturally contorted. The left leg was almost straight. It was as though her body were a big room and her mind rolled around inside, checking the walls for cracks, looking for leaks in the roof.
'Would you care for a cup of coffee?' someone asked.
Opening her eyes, she tried to focus on the mahogany floor.
'Wait outside, I can take it from here.'
'But-'
'I said get some fresh air.'
'Shit.' The Spaniard left. She heard the door close.
'Can you talk?'
'Yeah.'
'I didn't want to hurt you. Really. I just needed to show you. You're going to do what I say?'
'That depends.'
'Take off your clothes.'
'No. No. No.'
'You see, if you would have learned with the others in your life, they, too, would have left you alone. You just wouldn't learn. Now do you think you have learned?'
'Learned what?'
'Take off your clothes.'
'No. I have learned.'
'I couldn't hear you.' '
I have learned.'
'Good. Crawl over to that closet.' She did as she was told. Hating herself for it.
'Get in.'
'Can you hear me?' he asked an hour later.
'Yes.'
'I want you to talk to me.'
'About what?'
'I want you to tell me about where you grew up. About your father and your mother.'
It was two hours before he let her out. For that entire time she talked of her early life. When he was finished asking her questions, he opened the door and took her to the bathroom. While he waited outside, he told her to take a shower. Before she showered, she peed painfully. Then she got dressed. It took almost forty-five minutes because she could barely move. As she was dressing, she slid open the bathroom window an inch. There were
