Page 53

“Yes, there are a lot of them in the grass.” Hannibal consulted the dog tags. “Milko?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know. I swear.”

“And now we come to Grutas.”

“I don’t know, I don’t. Let me go and I will testify against Grentz. We will find him in Canada.”

“A few more verses, Herr Dortlich.”

Hannibal led the horse forward, dew glistened on t

he rope, almost level now.

“Das da steht im Walde allein—”

Dortlich’s strangled scream, “It’s Kolnas! Kolnas deals with him.”

Hannibal patted the horse and came back to bend over Dortlich. “Where is Kolnas?”

“Fontainebleau, near the Place Fontainebleau in France. He has a café. I leave messages. It’s the only way I can contact him.” Dortlich looked Hannibal in the eye. “I swear to God she was dead. She was dead anyway I swear it.”

Staring into Dortlich’s face, Hannibal clicked to the horse. The rope tightened and the dew flew off it as the little hairs on the rope stood up. A strangled scream from Dortlich cut off, as Hannibal howled the song into his face.

“Das da steht im Walde allein,

Mit dem purporroten Mantelein.”

A wet crunch and a pulsing arterial spray. Dortlich’s head followed the noose for about six meters and lay looking up at the sky.

Hannibal whistled and the horse stopped, his ears turned backward.

“Dem purporroten Mantelein, indeed.”

Hannibal dumped the contents of Dortlich’s pack on the ground and took his car keys and ID. He made a crude spit from green sticks and patted his pockets for matches.

While his fire was burning down to useful coals, Hannibal took Dortlich’s apple to Cesar. He took all the harness off the horse so he could not get tangled in the brush and walked him down the trail toward the castle. He hugged the horse’s neck and then slapped him on the rump. “Go home. Cesar, go home.”

Cesar knew the way.

44

GROUND FOG SETTLED in the bare ripped path of the power line and Sergeant Svenka told his driver to slow the truck for fear of hitting a stump. He looked at his map and checked the number on a pylon holding up the heavy transmission line.

“Here.”

The tracks of Dortlich’s car continued into the distance, but here it had sat and dripped oil on the ground.

The dogs and policemen came off the back of the truck, two big black Alsatians excited about going into the woods, and a serious hound. Sergeant Svenka gave them Dortlich’s flannel pajama top to sniff and they were off. Under the overcast sky the trees looked grey with soft-edged shadows and mist hung in the glades.

The dogs were milling about the hunting lodge, the hound casting around the perimeter, dashing into the woods and back, when a trooper called out from back in the trees. When the others did not hear him at once, he blew his whistle.

Dortlich’s head stood on a stump and on his head stood a raven. As the troopers approached, the raven flew, taking with it what it could carry.

Sergeant Svenka took a deep breath and set an example for the men, walking up to Dortlich’s head. Dortlich’s cheeks were missing, excised cleanly, and his teeth were visible at the sides. His mouth was held open by his dog tag, wedged between his teeth.

They found the fire and the spit. Sergeant Svenka felt the ashes to the bottom of the little fire pit. Cold.

“A brochette, cheeks and morels,” he said.