Ushered by afternoon sunlight, Ilse stepped through the sliding hospital doors and was confronted by the pungent odor of cleaning fluids and ammonia. A strange place for a family reunion, but in the case of the Muellers perhaps this was predictable. Ilse didn't want to stay long, though. She could only remember little Kat through hazy memories. But if her brother had been right, and if Kat had been asking questions, maybe she'd know about the accomplice.
Across from Ilse, behind a low counter, a young woman was manning the phones like a pro. The shrill ring from the blinking wall receivers indicated more than one call on hold, while the receptionist struggled to keep up.
Cautiously, Ilse approached the frazzled lady behind the desk and waited patiently as she heard low mutterings like, “...No room here, I'm sorry. No—No! Speak with Dr. Yuksel. No, we can't. I'm sorry.”
The woman huffed, a long strand of curling blond hair puffing past her forehead. Then, she paused to inhale, before pressing one of the flashing red buttons. “St. Mark's,” she said, in an impressively chipper tone given the circumstances.
“Excuse me,” a voice from behind Isle suddenly called out.
Ilse turned slowly, glancing towards where a man in a green shirt with a nametag approached her. He had a wiry frame, with deep set eyes and a thin mustache. The man blinked at her, frowning at her lapel as if searching for a name tag before returning his gaze to her face again.
"Can I help you?" the man said, in English.
Ilse blinked, taken aback for a moment. She glanced down at her shoes, and cleared her throat, hesitant, "I," she said, "yes. I mean. We can speak German," she said.
The nurse just shook his head, continuing in English. "I saw you arrive in the parking lot. You're driving a rental, yes? You look American."
Ilse wasn't sure what to make of this comment, nor did she feel comfortable that this nurse was spending time peering out the window and watching the parking lot. "Mr. Meyer," she said, slowly, matching his English and glancing at his name tag, "you work here?"
"I'm the nurse on call for the afternoon, yes. Who are you?"
"I see. Well, I'm here to visit someone."
Mr. Meyer pursed his lips, his thin mustache drooping around his mouth. "I'm afraid that's quite impossible. Visiting hours are over."
Ilse's breath lodged in her throat. A quiet squeak crept into her words, and she managed to eke out, "I don't mean to be a bother. But you're right, I did come from the U.S. A very long way. And I can't stay long. Please." The nurse began to shake his head, but Ilse added, desperately, "I'll just be a few minutes. I need to speak with Katarina Mueller."
At the name, the same way it had for the last two people, something shifted. Instead of shocked, or afraid, though, the nurse just looked sad. He gave a little shake of his head, and said, "I'm not sure what to tell you. You may be wasting your time. Katarina isn't in the visiting state. Most days she isn't."
Those ominous words hung low, and Ilse fidgeted nervously with her bangs; she crossed her arms, at last, her sweater sleeves soft beneath her fingertips. "Like I said, I won't take long. Please. It's important."
The nurse sighed and glanced over towards the receptionist swamped with phone calls. Then, he gave a little shake of his head, and turned, gesturing she should follow.
Ilse hurried forward, quickly murmuring, "Thank you so—"
But he interrupted, "Don't thank me yet. Like I said, she doesn't usually get visitors. She's not exactly," he paused, trailing off, "coherent."
Ilse felt a jolt of worry accompanied by a giant heap of guilt. Her mouth felt dry as she said, "I knew when I was told she would be here it might be difficult. I don't think I've spent much time since my studies in a hospital like this. Most of my clinical practice is outpatient."
He glanced at her. "Your practice?"
"I'm a clinical psychologist. I specialize in trauma victims." She decided not to mention exactly what type of trauma victims she dealt with. No sense in alarming the nurse.
Now, Mr. Meyer gave a little knowing nod. "Ah, I see. Now that make sense. Were you hired by a family member?"
"Something like that."
They reached the elevator doors, and stepped in. Two floors later, ushered out by a quiet ding, they stepped into a long hall. A key card allowed them through a thick, reinforced steel door that reminded Ilse more of a prison than a hospital. They moved past a few rooms, until they reached a metal door with a glass window. "She used to be on the first floor," he said, quietly. “But it was determined she was a danger to herself. I'm going to have to stand by the door while you're in there. Don't hesitate to call if you need anything."
Ilse nodded quickly, her heart fluttering more rapidly as the door swung in. Part of her wanted to turn right then and there and bolt. She'd ran track in high school, so she might even have made good time back out into the parking lot.
But she'd come here for a reason. She couldn't leave, not yet.
And so, as the door widened, she wasn't sure what to expect. Her imagination ran wild. For a moment, she expected someone crawling on the ceiling, or a specter of black and white behind a sheer curtain, the silhouette of a knife visible in their hand.
What she saw, though, was less dramatic.
A woman sat on a bed playing with two Barbies. A small, pink and white doll house sat at the woman's feet, boasting a miniature porch, and a small tea table covered in little Play-Doh cups.
The woman on the bed shared similar features to Ilse. Her hair wasn't as dark, but without makeup, she was still naturally pretty. Katarina Mueller looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She continued to dance the Barbies across the bed, but looked up, watching as Ilse stepped into the room. The door behind her remained ajar where the nurse watched.
"Hello?" Ilse said, quietly.
Katarina tilted her head, then smiled. She gave a cheerful little wave and returned her attention to her dolls.
"I am sorry for bothering you," Ilse murmured, realizing just how much she'd apologized over the last few days.
"That's okay," the woman said. She spoke in a breezy, airy sort of way. A singsong voice.
"What are you doing?"
"Playing," the woman replied.
"I can see that.”
Her sister continued to play with the Barbies, and leaned back, giggling a little, and then swirling the two dolls above her head, causing their hair to swish around and around.
"I was wondering if I could ask you some questions."
"Questions are great," declared Kat. "I like questions, too. They're one of my favorite things! I also like pink."
"Right. Well. Look, our brother sent me. My name is Hilda. Hilda Mueller. I think we're sisters."
If she'd expected this to provoke a reaction, she'd been mistaken. Katarina just continued to giggle, whirling her dolls at the ceiling. The room was padded, pale, and the window itself had reinforced glass. There were no drawstrings on the curtains, no laces in the woman's moccasins.
It looked lonely, sad.
"Look, I heard you were asking questions about our family,” Ilse pressed, determinedly on, trying not to let her own emotions get the best of her. Part of her still wanted to sprint out of there, but another part wanted to rush to Kat's side and give her a giant embrace. Neither, she guessed, would have been met with the nurse's approval. She wet her lips and continued in a shaky voice, “Questions about the house. A-about Dad, and whoever lived upstairs with him. I was wondering if I could ask you some of those questions." Ilse bit her lip, feeling a tremor in her chest.
Her sister kicked her feet some more, but then used the momentum to sit upright again. She paused, in contemplation, and then extended one of the Barbies. "Want to?" she said, cheerfully.
Ilse hesitated, licking her lips, but then nodded, stepping closer to the bed. She accepted the doll. The legs felt sticky as if from juice. She held the Barbie limply in one hand.
"No," Katarina said, sharply. "You're playing wrong."
Ilse lifted the Barbie, forcing a smile. "Is that better?"
"Here, look, do this.” Her sister pantomimed moving the doll across the bed.
Ilse did as well, allowing Kat to take the lead. Sitting there, next to the bed, toy in hand, she felt a horrible, cold chill pad across her spine
This didn't seem like a woman who'd been asking questions. This didn't seem like a woman at all. She was behaving like a six-year-old child, trapped in an insane asylum with only dolls and a dollhouse for company. Again, she wanted to reach out, to hug her sister, but again, she wasn't sure if this would only make things worse.
Another horrible, niggling thought pressed. What if Ilse had ended up this way? The two of them looked similar, were a similar age. Ilse could even remember her sister now. The dimpled cheeks, the bright smile despite the horrible circumstances.
She remembered. And yet now, things were different. Emotional repression, abuse and trauma during formative years leading to stunted maturation. Her sister was trapped in a memory, trapped in a past she'd been forced into. Just as trapped as she'd been back in that basement.
Kat kicked her feet by the bed in an energetic motion, fidgeting in place. She spoke in a giggling voice, "You wanna know about Daddy?”
Ilse froze, nodding slowly, one hand still clutching sticky plastic.
“Oooo-kay! I'll tell you. But what? You mean when he came in at night and touched us? Do you mean that?" She spoke in a baby voice, still staring at her Barbie, pushing it around. "Or maybe when he used that chain and wrapped it around Heidi's neck. He kept her like that, on her tiptoes, dangling from the ceiling. You remember that?" Her tone still playful, still giddy.
Ilse's mind began to whir, images, memories long suppressed began to rise, bobbing to the surface beneath murky water. She struggled, desperately trying to suppress them. She let out a long gasp, and the Barbie fell from her hand. "No, I don't mean that," she said, quickly. "Please, that's enough. I'm asking about Dad. Who was he with upstairs?"
Her sister, though, took the discarded Barbie, and continued in her singsong, baby voice, "Or maybe, when he beat me so bad he broke my fingers. And then, he wouldn't take me to a doctor. And so my fingers remained broke, for like a month." She wagged her head up and down, extending a hand, with two crooked fingers as if to prove the point.
Ilse could feel tears threatening her eyes now. She swallowed, barely able to speak, "I'm sorry. So sorry... Please. Please, that's enough."
"Or maybe when he would use that barbed wire. He would wrap it around himself, and then hug one of us. Or when he would use those scissors? Snip snip. He took one of my sister's ears. I saw him do it."
"Enough!" Ilse shouted, surging to her feet and hyperventilating now.
"Is everything alright?" the nurse's voice probed from the hallway.
Ilse stood breathing heavily, shaking her head, trying to suppress the rising tide of emotions as she stared at her young sister.
"It was all so sad," her sister said, in that same singsong voice. "Sometimes, don't you miss him? You should go see him; pay penance, like the rest of us."
She wagged her head up and down, still grinning. "He likes to play too. Don't you remember the way he used to play with us? So much fun. I like playing."
Ilse was shivering now, her stomach twisting. She wanted to get out. "I'm not going to visit him," she snapped. “Never."
"You should speak with him," Katarina said, shaking her head from side to side. "All of us do. It's the right thing. We owe him penance. You should speak with him." She spoke more insistently, jabbing the dolls towards her sister now, clumping them together in one fist, and waving them around like a conductor's wand.
"I-I'm sorry I came. I shouldn't have bothered you."
At that moment, her sister darted out of the bed.
Ilse flinched, half expecting some violent action. But instead, Katarina pushed her hand into the little dollhouse, and emerged a second later, holding a familiar tchotchke in one hand. The same type that Ilse found back in her father's basement.
Her sister leaned in, pressing her chin against Ilse's shoulder, and whispering, "You can have this. It's a gift." Then, still leaning in, everything about her tone changed.
Ilse went cold as the voice whispering in her ear went frigid. With a shaking hiss, her sister whispered, “See him. Say hello. See him, but don't ask about her!” she said, and Ilse could hear the stark terror in her sister's voice.
Ilse didn't move, didn't flinch, very still, her skin prickling. She whispered, “Ask about who?”
“No—no! See you asked! You asked!” Kat started to say, louder and louder now. “You can't ask about her!” She made a kissing sound, and then slipped the doll into Ilse's pocket, before lurching back and clutching at her head. She moaned now, yanking at her hair. “Can't ask,” she whimpered. “It was her. She was the demon. He was just a pawn. He was just... don't ask! Don't ask!”
Ilse breathed heavily, her chest prickling, one hand straying towards the doll. She wanted to scream. She wanted to turn and run.
"I think that's enough for today," the nurse's voice called from the hall.
Ilse couldn't help but agree. More than enough for the day. She turned, beating a hasty retreat back out into the hall. She paused long enough to stare back through the door at her sister, whose hands slowly released from her head as Ilse left. She returned to her bed, exhaled, then looked happy once more, kicking her feet at the ceiling and giggling every couple of seconds. It all seemed so wrong.
"Well, I'm impressed," the nurse was muttering, "She doesn't normally respond that well to visitors. You clearly know what you're doing.”
"Thank you," Ilse said, her words so quiet almost lost to the sound of her own panting breath. “Is—is there anything I can do to help? Pay for a better room? Anything?”
The nurse just gave a kind-eyed, sympathetic glance. Quietly, he said, “Sometimes all we can do is listen and hope. I'm very sorry.”
Ilse's eyes brimmed with tears again, and she could feel the weight of the doll in her pocket. At the same time, a more rational part of her mind directed her thoughts. Was her sister telling the truth? Maybe the only choice left was to visit her father. Francis had told her the prison’s name. Justizvollzugsanstalten Freiburg.
She needed to visit him. But every bone in her body told her this would be a bad idea. Her. Kat mentioned a her. “It was her. She was the demon. He was just a pawn.”
Her pulse raced, and she closed her eyes, trying to think. The person upstairs? Her father's accomplice? Was she the one truly behind it all? Ilse shivered again.
Just then, her old, dumb phone began to ring in the hall.
Ilse jerked, her hand darting into her pocket. She didn't trust smart phones. The one she kept back in the U.S. was also similar, a keyboard flip phone, with a cheap sim card. This one, she'd picked up at the airport, using the same number and sim card.
Now, as she frowned, glancing at the phone, she recognized the number.
Tom Sawyer.
She blinked, allowing the nurse to slowly guide her back down the hall towards the thick metal door.
What was Tom calling her for?
She raised the phone, and answered, in a hesitant tone, "Yes?"
"Dr. Beck?” Short, curt as ever. The same gruff tone.
"Yes. This is Dr. Beck. Is this Agent Sawyer?"
"Mhmm. Got a case in Oregon. Wondering if I could get an extra pair of eyes."
She paused, considering what sort of case would make someone like Sawyer ask for anyone's input. Especially a civilian’s.
"A case?"
“Nasty one. Sick twist behind it. I seem to remember you specialize in these guys. Well? You in?"
Just like that, in his curt, to-the-point manner, he'd also just unwittingly offered her a lifeline.
She could visit her father. The prison wasn't far from here. Or she could return to the U.S. and help Sawyer. Normally, she would've said no. Oregon was too far. Besides, she wasn't an agent. She preferred dealing with the survivors of serial killers, not those who didn't make it.
She glanced over her shoulder as the metal door clicked behind them, and the elevator doors slid open. She could no longer see the door to her sister's room.
Penance? Yeah right. She wouldn't visit him. He didn't deserve that. Besides, Sawyer needed her. Yeah, that was it. That was the reason. "Sounds good," she said, quickly before she had a chance to change her mind. "I can help with that."
"Need you here AM. Doable?"
"It might be tight. I'm not exactly home right now."
"Where you at?"
"It... nowhere. Yes, I can be there tomorrow morning. I'll see you then, Agent Sawyer. If you could just text me an address."
"I'll see you then, doc."
And then, without a farewell, Sawyer hung up.
The elevator doors closed, and they began to descend once more. Ilse knew she was running away. She knew the only course of action remaining was to speak with her father. Perhaps, one day, when hell froze over, she'd consider it.
But until then, she preferred letting him burn in solitude.