Snow White Must Die (Bodenstein & Kirchhoff, #4)(33)

He struggled with himself for a moment, then grabbed her purse and rooted around in it until he found her cell phone. His heart was pounding in his throat when he flipped open the phone. She hadn’t turned it off. Bodenstein knew that he was committing a real breach of trust, but he couldn’t help himself. In the menu he called up the message file and clicked through the text messages. Last night at 9:48 she had received a brief text from an unknown sender. Tomorrow, 9:30? Same place? And she had answered it only a minute later. Where had he been at that moment? Why hadn’t he noticed Cosima texting her reply? All set, can’t wait!!! With three exclamation points.

A queasy feeling spread through the pit of his stomach. The fears that he’d been carrying around all day seemed to be well founded. With those three exclamation points the more harmless possibilities like a doctor or hairdresser fell away. She would never be looking forward to such appointments with so much enthusiasm—especially not at ten to ten on a Monday night. Bodenstein listened with one ear cocked upward as he searched through the cell phone for other treacherous messages. But Cosima must have cleared the cache recently, because he found nothing else. He pulled out his own cell and saved the number of the unknown person who was going to be meeting his wife apparently for the second time at nine thirty on a Tuesday morning. Bodenstein flipped his cell shut and put it back in his pocket. He felt terrible. The thought that Cosima was going behind his back and lying to him was simply intolerable. He had never lied to her, not in over twenty-five years of marriage. It was not always advantageous to be honest and straightforward, but lies and false promises conflicted deeply with his character and his strict upbringing. Should he explode and confront her with his suspicions? Ask her why she had lied to him? Bodenstein ran both hands through his thick, dark hair and took a deep breath. No, he decided, he wouldn’t say anything. He would preserve the appearance and illusion of an intact relationship for a while yet. It might be cowardly, but he simply didn’t feel capable of grabbing hold of his life and smashing it to bits. There was still a tiny hope that things weren’t as they seemed.

* * *



They arrived in pairs or in small groups and were let in through the back entrance of the church after they had said the password. The invitation had been given verbally, and the password was important because he wanted to make sure that only the right people were there. It was eleven years ago that he had called a secret meeting like this, preventing an even greater disaster. Now it was high time to take renewed measures before the situation escalated. He stood next to the organ in the gallery, hidden behind one of the wooden beams, and watched with growing nervousness as the pews below him filled up. The flickering of the few candles in the chancel cast grotesque shadows on the ceiling and walls of the vaulted nave. Electric light might have attracted unwanted attention, for even the dense fog that had settled outside wouldn’t have been able to conceal brightly lit church windows. He cleared his throat, rubbing his moist palms together. A glance at his watch told him that it was almost time.

They had all arrived. Slowly he felt his way down the wooden spiral staircase to the bottom, the steps creaking under his weight. When he emerged from the darkness into the dim candlelight, the whispered conversations died away. The bell in the church tower struck eleven—perfect choreography. He stepped in front of the first row of pews into the center aisle, looking at the familiar faces; what he saw was encouraging. All eyes were directed at him, and he recognized in them the same determination as they’d had before. They all understood what was at stake.

“Thank you for coming here this evening,” he began his speech, which he had long been polishing in his mind. Although he spoke softly, his voice carried to the farthest corners. The acoustics of the church were perfect; he knew that from choir practice. “The situation has become untenable now that he is here again, and I have asked you here today so that we can decide what to do about it.”

He was not a practiced speaker; he was trembling inside with the nervousness he always felt whenever he had to speak to an audience. And yet in a few words he succeeded in expressing the concerns of himself and the village. None of those present had to be told what was at risk this evening, so no one batted an eye when he announced his decision. For a moment there was a deathly silence. Somebody coughed softly. He could feel the sweat running down his back. Even though he was absolutely convinced of the necessity of his plan, he was still aware that he was standing in a church and had just incited these people to murder. His gaze swept over the faces of the thirty-four people before him. He had known every one of them since he was a kid. None of them would ever breathe a word of what was discussed here. Back then, eleven years ago, it had been no different. He waited, tensely.

“I’m in,” came a voice finally from the third row.

There was silence. One more volunteer was needed. There had to be at least three.

“I’ll come along too,” somebody said at last. A deep sigh went through the gathering.

“Good.” He was relieved. For a moment he’d been afraid that they would back down. “It will serve as a warning. If he doesn’t leave town voluntarily after that, we’ll really have to get serious.”





Wednesday, November 12, 2008



Dr. Nicola Engel regarded her decimated K-11 team with displeasure. There were only four present at the morning meeting; besides Behnke, Kathrin Fachinger was missing too. While Ostermann reported on the less than satisfactory response to their public appeal for help, Oliver von Bodenstein stirred his coffee with an absentminded expression on his face. Pia Kirchhoff thought he looked bleary eyed, as though he hadn’t gotten enough sleep. What the heck was going on with him? For the past couple of days he’d given the impression of being one step removed from himself. Kirchhoff suspected family trouble. In May of last year he’d been acting so strangely, and it turned out that he was worried about Cosima’s health. His concerns had proved to be groundless—he hadn’t had a clue that she was pregnant.