One Eye On The Darkness

Chapter Nineteen

One question had been bothering Frieda ever since she had regained her composure to find Schluter patching her up. Why had the detective been motivated to break down her front door? Now, barely able to form the words, her mouth was so parched, she asked him.

"A neighbour phoned the station, reporting the commotion coming from your apartment," he said. "I was standing right next to the guy who took the call and recognised the address. I drove straight round here and the neighbour let me in to the apartment building. There was no answer when I knocked on your door, and the neighbour said that the noise had stopped suddenly just a few minutes before. I wasn't about to waste any more time knocking."

Frieda was sweating but she felt intolerably cold. She shivered as she tried to recall the events of that night prior to her awakening, beaten and bloodied, in Schluter's arms. But the memory eluded her. More than that. She doubted that the memory even existed to be recalled. A sudden wave of panic washed over her and she felt like running. Her breathing stalled for a second, then became irregular. But she faced down the threat of hyperventilation and somehow won.

Schluter sighed and closed his eyes. Frieda had no idea if the reaction was to shutout his memories of that night, or to better recollect them. When his eyes opened again, and she saw the pain reflected in them, she had her answer.

"You were a mess, Frieda," he growled, and Frieda heard his voice crack with an emotion she was unfamiliar with. "And your place was wrecked. You were just lying there, mumbling, crying, sometimes hysterical. You were bleeding everywhere. I thought -- "

Schluter paused and took a deep breath before continuing. He had paled andlooked suddenly ill.

"I thought you'd been raped," he said quietly, closing his eyes again as though giving voice to his fear hurt him. Frieda swallowed. The detective did not realise just how close to the truth he was. She could not have felt more violated if she had fallen victim to such a fate.

"I don't remember," she whispered.

"What do you remember?"

It must have been the tenth time that Schluter had asked, but she humoured him. She
knew he was looking for something to ground his emotions, to hold on to.

"There was a presence. It was overwhelming. Like it was sucking the life and breathout of everything. I think I saw it. Then --"

Like Schluter before her, she hesitated. "Then it was inside me," she murmured. "AndI had no control. I was suffocating. I could hear myself screaming but it sounded distant, as if I was listening to a conversation through a wall."

"What did you mean about me being a witness?" she broached, suddenly remembering the root reason for this conversation. "How is that even possible?"

Schluter held her gaze for a moment then stood up and returned his attention to the white board plastered with photographs and scrawl.

"The remains of Stephanie Brink were discovered early this morning by a newspaper delivery guy," he began, and rammed his finger down onto a map of the city that occupied the upper left corner of the board. "Here."

"Yes, you said," Frieda said flatly. "Hansaring."

"The poor sod's still downstairs," Schluter went on, as though he hadn't heard. "Called 112 just after four-thirty a.m. Which was about a half hour after I found you."

Schluter folded his arms and looked down at Frieda. "And half an hour after you had already told me the address."

Frieda swallowed painfully. "What?" she croaked.

"Like I said, you were jabbering when I broke into your flat. I thought it was just gibberish, until I realised that it was actually just disjointed. A lot of stuff about pain and darkness.  And you kept  saying the same thing over and over every few seconds:  'Hansaring. Too late.' "