Tom wasn't sure how often he'd end up in a hospital, watching Ilse Beck sleep. She looked so peaceful on the hospital bed, on the other side of the privacy curtain between their rooms. She had bandages on her cheek and head. More bandages along her arm. Thankfully, Ilse's burns, unlike his, hadn't been too severe.
Sawyer glanced towards his shooting hand, wincing. The worst of his burns had been along the back of his right hand. His shooting hand. There'd been talk of amputating the damn thing, but Sawyer had refused. Well, more accurately, he'd threatened to kill the doctor in his sleep if he even tried it.
The pain along his arm, and up and down his leg was immense. It had been touch-and-go at first, but now the doctors said his skin should heal.
The same, of course, couldn't be said for Guy Wolfe. The man was now toast, burnt to a crisp. They'd found his remains and matched them with the DNA of the hair.
Sawyer winced, leaning back in his cot, propped up, his bandaged arm resting against his chest. He watched Ilse sleep, frowning to himself. She looked peaceful lying there, but he'd seen something different back in that forest. She'd been brave. Courageous. But he'd seen fear in her eyes. A terror so deep it had taken his breath away. He'd seen it before, but never for such a long period of time.
Dr. Beck wasn't like most people. She had demons of her own to worry about. Perhaps he'd misjudged her. Maybe, if there was someone who could be trusted with Rebekah's story, it was Ilse.
Regardless, he'd already made up his mind. No matter what, he wasn't going to tell her about his plan for revenge. One benefit of spending a week in the hospital, it gave him ample time to think. And now, as he lay there, he allowed himself a grim nod of satisfaction. He knew how he would get his sister's killer. He now had a plan. A job like this didn't always guarantee old age. Which meant he had to act while he still could.
He let out a slow, painful breath, twisting his head faintly, adjusting his bandaged hand and closing his eyes.
Dr. Beck could be trusted. She had demons of her own haunting her. But at the end of the day, only one person would put Rebekah's killer in the ground. He refused to get anyone else involved.
“Tom?” Ilse's voice came soft and faint.
He remained in his bed, eyes closed now. For a moment, he wanted to say something. They'd made a good team back there. Ilse had a way of zoning in on their suspects' motives. And Sawyer had a way of not getting too caught up in the emotional side of things. He caught them. End of story.
He let out a faint little breath, but kept his eyes closed. He didn't like talking much anyway. Besides, there would be plenty of time for talking later.
***
After eight days in the hospital, Ilse was finally glad to be home. She sat in front of her computer on the borrowed web cam, smiling politely towards a client displayed on the computer screen. She waited a moment, then nodded. “Alright then, I'll see you next week, okay?”
Ilse wore a windbreaker instead of her usual sweater. She didn't want to alarm her clients with the bandages along her arm and back. The stitches on her head, though, were healing nicely and hidden mostly by the hair now regrowing over her ear. The cuts on her cheek hadn't been deep enough to leave scars.
Ilse gave a final salute of farewell to her client, then signed off, sighing in contentment at a session gone well. She glanced towards the small, wooden carved figure she'd found on her hospital bed the day before she'd left. She smiled. A tiny, little wooden fairy. Like from a story book. Sawyer had whittled it for her.
It was his version of a long conversation, a hug and a reluctant apology, rolled in one. She touched the sanded surface of the wooden fairy and smiled again.
She sat in her chair for a moment, glad to be back at her apartment. But another part of her was distracted. She glanced towards the pile of mail she'd brought in just before the session had begun. She hadn't had time to go through it. But she had spotted the postcard hidden amid the bills and advertisements.
Ilse let out a faint puff, glancing towards the pile of mail now, and frowning to herself.
The hospital had been a nice reprieve from her daily duties. Not only that, it had given her a momentary respite from the haunting of postcards and contact information. Whoever was still hounding her, be it her father or his mistress, they were clearly insistent.
Ilse had even changed the locks on her door.
She pushed slowly to her feet, wincing as she did and touching gingerly to the stitches above her ear. She then moved towards the door, coughing occasionally as she did. The cough, according to the doctors, was caused by damage from the fire. She would make a recovery, but it would take a bit more time.
Ilse paused over the pile of discarded mail where she'd left it. A hanging brochure for a nearby carwash half obscured the postcard.
But with a faint sigh of resignation, frowning, she bent over, picking up the card. This time, the image was a custom one. Someone had taken a photograph of her apartment and created it into a postcard. Ilse felt a flicker of anxiety.
How had they gotten a photograph of her apartment? From the real estate website online?
Or... or in person?
She felt a slow shiver turn to dread. She turned the card over, with almost an air of inevitability.
And there, on the back, she spotted a single sentence. “Naughty Tom Sawyer burned that man... Shame.”
Ilse just stared, her heart in her throat. How could her father, back in prison, possibly know about Tom? How could they have a picture of her apartment?
She stomped over to the window, gripping the postcard in a trembling fist. She stared out at the street, her eyes searching for... for something.
But passing traffic, pedestrians, store fronts across the street—none of it stood out as untoward.
She looked back at the taunting letter, feeling her anger returning now like a cold prickle. With a growl, she slowly crumpled the thing. But this wasn't enough. She marched back towards the kitchen, looking for matches.
Ilse's hands shook as she grabbed a match above her wood burning stove, tossed the note card in the sink then lit it.
She stared at the fire, watching the card incinerate against the steel basin.
As she stood there, her eyes flickering with the flames in the sink, she felt a cold, dreadful certainty.
Her father wasn't the one sending her the notes.
It wasn't possible. He wouldn't have known about Sawyer. He couldn't have taken the photos of her apartment.
The mistress? Had the woman followed Ilse back from Barcelona? Or was she just overthinking it?
Ilse shivered, holding her hands around her arms, wrapping tight. The slow trail of smoke lifted from the note card and she turned on the faucets, dousing the thing before it set the alarms off.
As she stood there, inhaling the faint scent of smoke... Her phone began to ring.
Ilse hesitated, swallowing slowly. She lifted the device, frowning at the unknown number. A second passed, then she answered. “H-hello? Who is this?”
A voice breathed on the other end. “Your father is up for parole,” the voice said simply. A feminine voice? No... Well, perhaps. Was it muffled? “Just thought you'd want to know.”
Then, the call ended.
Ilse stood in her small apartment kitchen, exhaling slowly. Parole? Was it possible? Was Gerald Mueller up for release?
She stared at her computer screen, wondering if she ought to look it up.
Her father wasn't sending her the postcards. So who had just called her?
She scowled, lifting the phone and trying to dial the number back. But instantly she was met by a disconnected tone.
“Dammit,” she growled, wincing as she moved her head but bunching a hand at her side. “Damn it!” she repeated, louder, scooping her hand into the sink and ripping the wet residue of burnt paper before flinging it into the trash can beneath the sink.
That's what she thought of those postcards. That's what she thought of anonymous tips. And that, most of all, was what she thought of the prospect of her own father being released from prison. He'd never been indited for the actual murders, only the child abuse.
Who was taunting her? What role was her father playing in all of this?
With a faint sigh, Ilse tried to compose herself. She breathed slowly, raised her phone, dialing a new number. After the second ring, they answered.
“Hey, Rudy,” Ilse said slowly. “I need you to look something up for me. No, no, Sawyer's not here. Please. I'd owe you one.” She inhaled shakily, standing by the sink, her fingers stained in ash and slick with water droplets. “Please,” she said slowly. “I need you to see if a man named Gerald Mueller is up for parole. He's in prison in Germany. Do you think you can do that?” She hesitated again, listening to the response. Then said, in a hoarse tone. “And Rudy, you have to swear to me, this is our secret. Got it? You can't tell anyone.”