After enquiring at the newspaper office in Rorschach where he could find his “aunt and uncle’s” farm, Hans turned into their driveway and drove past the wrought iron gates rusted with neglect. He drove down the rutted, asphalt drive. Bushes and trees needed pruning. Flowerbeds were overgrown. Crabgrass and dandelions captured the lawn. A pity, he thought. This might be a nice place to live, isolated and in safe territory. He would like to take care of grounds like these- - -work in the garden again, manicure the lawn, edge the flowerbeds and fill them with flowers.
He remembered when he was a boy; his father gave him a small plot of ground. He had turned the soil, and carefully worked in the manure he had gotten from a friend’s farm. After he planted the bulbs and seeds, he waited and carefully watered the rich brown earth. He still remembered the day he visited his garden after school and noticed small, green shoots breaking through the tilled surface. He lay on his stomach in his school clothes and watched, hoping to see the shoots actually grow.
Slowing at the curve in the rutted driveway, Hans parked close to the farmhouse. Reaching into a travel bag on the front seat he took out an auburn wig and adjusted it carefully on his close cropped head. Next he put on a Harris Tweed tam. He looked in the car’s rear view mirror, grinned and took a roll of duct tape from the glove box of the car and shoved it into his pocket.
Dressed in white casual shirt and designer jeans, he adjusted the horned-rimmed glasses and walked toward the front door. These Swiss, he sneered, all want their stinking barn as close as possible. Why don’t they just sleep with the cows and pigs?
The birds sang in the trees as Hans walked up the steps to the front door. He pulled the rope attached to a cowbell on the elaborate iron grill above the door. Out of habit, he carefully measured his distance from the door. He waited. He reached to pull the rope for a second time when the door opened slightly, held in place with a safety chain. An elderly woman peeked through the partially-opened door, “Yes, who is it?”
Hans lifted his foot and crashed it against the door. The safety chain ripped from the doorframe. The force knocked the woman onto the floor.
Hans ducked inside, slammed the door, pulled the woman to her feet and held her with his knife to her throat.
“Now, Mrs. Klein, where’s your husband?”
She trembled and pointed toward a closed door, “Asleep. My God, who are you?”
“Shut up,” Hans picked her up and dropped her into an over-stuffed chair. He leaned over and gripped her small face in his hand and pointed the dagger at her. Terrified, she stared at him. Her face had gone white.
“Listen to me, and listen well. If you scream I’ll slit your throat from ear to ear.” He squeezed her cheeks between his thumb and fingers. “Do you understand?”
Not waiting for a response, he glanced around, “Is this the only telephone you have?” He pointed to the phone on the table beside her.
Mrs. Klein stared, horrified, and nodded. Hans released his grip, straightened, and ripped the cord out of the wall. He slung the phone across the room.
“Call your husband. Wake him up. Get him in here”
Hans yanked her to her feet. He wrapped his right arm around her and stood in front of the door she indicated. Sticking the tip of the dagger at her throat, he whispered in her ear. “Call him in here.”
“Simon. Simon, please come into the living room. I need you” she called.
Louder,” Hans said. “You wouldn’t want me to go in after him, would you?”
From some hidden recess inside the woman came a primordial scream that split the tense air.
“Simon Come into the living room. For God’s sake, help me.”
A disheveled man burst through the door and stumbled into the living room.
“Good God, Adi, what happened? You scared me.” He focused on Hans holding his wife. “Who is this man?”
Hans watched as the reality of the situation registered in Simon’s sleep-filled brain. He sank to his knees and stared at his wife. A moan rumbled out of his throat. He rocked slowly on his knees, his eyes tightly closed, his hands clasped in prayer. The moan changed to Hebrew, “Hear oh Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one”
“Shut up, old man” Hans shouted. “Your stupid God won’t save you this time. Listen carefully, for I’m only going to tell you once. If I do not get what I want, your sweetheart dies a very slow and painful death. I’ll cut her neck from ear to ear. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Simon opened his eyes. Tears streamed down his cheeks and seeped into his white whiskers. He nodded. “Yes, yes. Anything you say. Please don’t hurt Adi.”
Hans laughed. “Where is the Whittelsbach Emerald?”
Simon cast a furtive glance at his wife. She shook her head and closed her eyes.
Hans picked up on the slight signal and swore.
“I am not a patient man,” Hans said. “Let’s see if a little pain will loosen your tongue.”
Keeping his attention on Simon, Hans moved the dagger from Adi’s throat and sliced a portion off her ear. She let loose a piercing scream. A red ribbon of blood ran down Adi’s neck. Simon slumped to the floor.
“If you so much as move, woman, I’ll slice off your other ear.”
He turned her loose, lifted the man to his feet, and dragged him to a wooden chair in the corner of the room. Taking the roll of duct tape from his pocket, he forced Simon’s arms around his back, bound his wrists together, and secured them to the chair. He taped Simon’s ankles to the chair legs, turned back to Adi cringing with fear and trying to staunch the flow of blood from her ear.
“We’ll never tell you where the emerald is.” She spat the words indignantly. “You can torture and kill us, but you don’t deserve to have that emerald.”
Hans walked over to her. His whole body stiffened. He glanced at the ceiling, spun around as quickly as a lightening bolt and threw the dagger at Simon.
Simon stared at the hilt of the knife protruding from his chest. He looked up at his wife, smiled, and closed his eyes.
Adi’s scream cut short. A deep moan pulled life out of her. She closed her eyes and slumped.
Hans whispered in her ear, “Now little lady, do you want to tell me where you keep my emerald?”
Adi looked up through pain-filled eyes. She spat into his face.
Hans wiped the spittle with the back of his hand. “That’s the way it’s to be? I’ll find it if I have to tear this house apart board by board and burn it to the ground.” He grasped a handful of her hair, and roughly lifted her to her feet.
Her scream so piercing, was almost pretty. A high, sweet sound. As the scream left her throat, Hans gripped her head, twisted it, and broke her neck. He closed his eyes at the satisfying crunch of vertebrae as they snapped. He dropped her limp body to the floor.
For an hour, he searched the farmhouse. He swore under his breath and stalked back into the living room to Simon’s slumped body. He placed his boot on the old man’s chest and withdrew his knife. With the bloody blade, he slashed open Simon’s nightshirt sleeve, carved two jagged lightening flashes in the man’s bicep, and did the same to Adi.
Hans carefully wiped blood from his knife on Simon’s nightshirt. He inserted his dagger back into its leather scabbard nestled between his shoulder blades.
He stomped toward the front door, kicking papers he had knocked off a desk during his search. He gave a final glance around the room, caught the glitter of gold in the letterhead on a piece of paper that read Christy’s of Geneva. He snatched it up and read the typing. It was a receipt for the Whittelsbach Emerald that would be sold at auction in just a few days. He left the farmhouse, slamming the door behind him. Under no circumstances would anyone get that emerald. It was his emerald.
Back in his car, Hans tossed the tam in the back seat, put on a black baseball cap, carefully applied a fake nose, and stuck a hairy wart near his chin. He started the engine, swung the Mercedes around, and sped toward Geneva.