The Werewolf of Bamberg

15

SOMEWHERE UNDERGROUND, NOON, NOVEMBER 2, 1668 AD

In her dark, damp room, Adelheid Rinswieser had spent the worst night of her life-alone with a sniffling, scratching, growling beast that was attempting to dig its way down to her. For the first time the dungeon felt less like a prison than a fortress, and she hoped it would protect her.

From time to time the unknown monster vanished and the sounds stopped, but it always returned to continue digging, and now a ray of sunlight shone past a wooden panel in a corner of the room.

Outside, it appeared to be a pleasant day. A few blackbirds were singing, and occasionally a magpie squawked nearby, but Adelheid just lay there holding her breath, waiting for the monster to return and continue digging. How long would it be before it had dug down deep enough and the wooden panel gave way? How long before it reached her and attacked her? Tied up as she was, she could neither flee nor defend herself.

In these hours of terror, Adelheid could only imagine what the beast looked like. Was it the same monster that had attacked her in the forest? Was it the man who was keeping her down here? Whatever it was, considerable time had passed since she’d last heard the digging and scraping.

Had the animal given up?

Adelheid felt a flicker of hope. She tugged at the leather straps. She was dying of thirst and the cold, but as long as neither the man nor this monster broke into her dungeon, she was safe-for the time being. She used this time to ruminate frantically. Would it be possible for her to flee? Why had the man locked her up down here? Was there anything to gain from her newfound knowledge?

She was sure she knew the man.

Ever since she saw him without his hood, she’d been racking her brain but couldn’t remember where she’d seen him before. It took a long time before it finally came to her, but now she was certain-she recognized those gestures, those eyes, even the shape of the mouth. She knew who it was.

And surely he realized that she knew.

If only for that reason, he couldn’t let her go.

But why? Why are you doing this? Why did you cry? How can I convince you not to kill me?

Adelheid went over it again and again in her mind, but she couldn’t figure it out. She’d never be able to convince him by pleading and crying. The others had tried that in vain. She’d heard their screams as they became more guttural and softer, until they finally fell silent. If she could just figure out his motive, perhaps she had a tiny chance of persuading him.

Why? Why is he doing this?

She cringed on hearing a sound. It was the same tapping and sniffing that always preceded the scraping and digging.

The monster had returned.

It was prowling around out there, sniffing and panting, and once it growled briefly. Then the noise stopped.

Adelheid listened intently. Would the animal start digging again? But there was no further sound; perhaps the beast had left.

But. . for how long?

“Go away,” she whispered. “Go back to hell, where you came from. Please. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord be with you. . ”

Adelheid prayed the Ave Marias familiar to her from her childhood, one after the other, giving her strength and reassurance.

“Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. .”

But for all her prayers, the Mother of God did not intercede.

“I can’t understand why the two have been gone so long,” Simon murmured, pacing back and forth like a caged animal in Hieronymus Hauser’s study. “It’s already way past noon.”

“Just calm down,” his father-in-law responded. “Bartholomäus may be an unpleasant fellow, but nothing will happen to your wife with him at her side. In a heavy fog like this, it takes a long time to do a good search of the city.”

“I know you’re right, but still, it worries me.”

Simon gave a sigh of resignation and continued pacing, his hands folded behind his back, through the room cluttered with chests and shelves, from one corner to the other. He’d been waiting more than two hours, along with Jakob, Georg, and old Jeremias, for Magdalena and Bartholomäus to return. They’d arranged to meet here in Hauser’s house, as Simon hoped they might find some clue in Hieronymus’s documents to explain his disappearance. So far they’d found nothing. And considering the massive disorder in the room, he didn’t believe he’d have any success here, either.

Rolls of parchment, notebooks, and worn, weighty tomes lay scattered around, and a huge tower of files was piled atop a small desk in the corner. In his cursory search, Simon had almost knocked over a pot of ink carelessly left on the floor.

Katharina herself had led them into the cramped attic room. By now she’d calmed down enough to go back to the kitchen and bake cookies with the boys. In the meantime, Bartholomäus’s servant, Aloysius, was taking care of the injured Matheo in the executioner’s house. The Bamberg executioner had sworn Aloysius to absolute silence, which was not particularly difficult for the uncommunicative servant.

“At the moment I’m more worried about Hieronymus Hauser,” Jakob said, pulling out his pipe. He searched through his pockets for some tobacco but, not finding any, sucked on the stem and continued his musings. Finally, he spoke up. “After Sebastian Harsee, Hauser is the only one remaining on our supposed werewolf’s list. Everything suggests that now he, too, has fallen victim to the werewolf.”

Shortly before the end of the mass, Jakob and Jeremias had returned to the cathedral without incident, bringing the minutes of Haan’s trial along with them. Now it was lying open on the small, ink-stained lectern in the middle of Hauser’s study. Jakob pounded his gnarled fingers on the entry listing the members of the commission.

“It’s just as I told you,” he mumbled, chewing on his cold pipe stem. “All the victims were somehow involved in the trial of Chancellor George Haan. When a commission member has died, the murderer blames a surviving relative and takes his vengeance out on him-and in a rather bloody way, it appears.”

“You’re right,” said Jeremias. “When I think how brutally we treated poor Chancellor Haan then, all this torturing of the victims suddenly doesn’t look so strange.” He poured himself another steaming tankard of hot mulled wine, which made his nose look even redder. “Basically, the suspect is only treating the torture victims in the customary way.” He frowned. “Leaving aside, of course, the rabies infection. That’s so cruel, even we wouldn’t have thought about doing it back then.”

“On the other hand, he’s being completely consistent,” Simon said. “Turning the son of the former head of the Witches Commission into a kind of witch himself-this vengeance is especially perfidious, worse than any other conceivable torture.”

Simon cast a sideways glance at Jeremias, who had seemed so kind and innocent. The sensitive medicus was uneasy sitting in the same room with a man who had probably executed hundreds of people-to say nothing of the young prostitute. But there were also moments when Simon felt something almost like pity for the old cripple.

“I remember young Harsee well,” Jeremias said, after taking a few long sips of the mulled wine. “Sebastian was an ardent student of theology, always carrying around his father’s documents for him. It’s quite possible that he, too, was involved in the intrigue against the Haans. Something smells fishy here.” He put his hand to his nose. “You can’t say that about the other members of the committee.”

Georg, sitting next to him, cleared his throat. He’d returned more than an hour ago from searching the western part of town and, until now, hadn’t said a word. It was clear he was upset by the disappearance of his twin sister.

“Isn’t it about time we told Katharina the truth about her father?” he asked. “After all, it’s quite possible he’s already dead.”

“She’ll learn about it soon enough,” Jakob grumbled. “For now, I’m happy she’s keeping busy caring for my two grandsons who are always looking for something to eat. Let’s all put our heads together now and try to think about who might be the culprit.” He turned to Jeremias. “Did you say all the members of the Haan family died?”

Jeremias nodded. “So far as I know, yes-the chancellor and his wife, their son, two other daughters, and a daughter-in-law. Another son was supposedly poisoned a few years later, and a son-in-law died in an accident. I believe that’s all of them.”

“And the grandchildren?” Simon quickly chimed in. “All that happened almost forty years ago, and if we’re really looking for someone who was alive at that time and is still looking for vengeance, he must have been quite young then.”

“You can forget that-there was no one else. The family died out.” Jeremias took another deep swallow. “Just be happy I could remember anything at all and could lead you to the documents in the archive. I’m just an old cripple now, nothing more.”

“Oh, come now. You’re also the ruthless murderer of a young prostitute, and I’m still uncertain whether to turn you over to Lebrecht’s guards,” Jakob growled. “If your life means anything to you, you’d better use your head, or you won’t have it much longer.”

Jeremias groaned. “You’re asking too much. I’m neither an archivist nor a court clerk. How can I-”

“A court clerk!” Simon interrupted excitedly. “That’s it! Hieronymus was the clerk. Katharina said he often brought documents back home to work on them here. Perhaps there are some notes that will tell us something about the Haans. This family, once so powerful, cannot simply have vanished from the face of the earth.”

“Such documents would have to be decades old,” said Jakob. “Why would Hieronymus keep things like that?”

“He didn’t keep them, he just found them again.” Simon paced back and forth, faster and faster, waving his arms as he spoke. “Until now I thought Hieronymus had perhaps left a note behind. But that’s not the case.” He pointed at all the books on the floor. “Just look around you. Katharina’s father was looking around for something in the old notes-something he’d forgotten. And I think he found it.”

He stopped pacing and turned to the others. “Think about what’s happened here. Two days ago I paid a visit to Hieronymus. Clearly something in our conversation about the witch trial jogged his memory. He probably remembered the Haan trial and noticed the connection between the people who’d disappeared. At the same time he realized that if he was right, he himself belonged in the group of potential victims. But he wasn’t certain, and that’s why he hurried off to the bishop’s archives-”

“Where he found the document,” Jakob broke in, nodding as he chewed on the stem of his pipe. “It was on the very top of the shelf, meaning it had just been taken out recently, probably by Hauser. So far, so good. But how does that help us?”

“Now hear me out,” Simon quickly continued. “Magdalena told me that Katharina was watching her father as he searched through everything up here. That was after he returned from the archive, so it’s clear he wanted to check something, and after that he was very agitated. During the bishop’s reception he kept looking around, as if searching for someone.”

“Probably the suspect,” Georg added, looking at Simon intently. “You think he discovered something here in this room that put him on the right track to the perpetrator?”

Simon nodded. “But evidently the perpetrator found Hieronymus first. Katharina told us she had lost sight of her father in the courtyard, so we can guess that this unknown avenger was among the guests and reached out to strike there. Who could that have been? There must be a clue, something. .” He looked around the cluttered room. “If Hieronymus really found something here, where would he have put it?” He walked through the room, then stopped in front of the bookshelves. “Where?”

Simon closed his eyes and tried to put himself in the place of Hieronymus Hauser. He imagined him running through the room. .

I’m terrified. I’ve learned something terrible, and now I want to be certain, so I’ll start taking books off the shelves at random. No, not at random-I’ll look for something very specific. .

Simon opened his eyes, bent down, and picked up a heavy volume with a sewn binding lying on the floor in front of him. He leafed through it with trembling fingers. It was an old accounts book for the city, showing tax receipts as well as expenditures for a new gallows, building materials, and food for the kaiser’s emissaries.

Two hundred guilders for eight barrels of Rhine wine, plus five pigs at twenty guilders, a cartload of wood. .

Simon reached for the next book, but that, too, only recorded city expenditures-endless columns of figures-and soon his eyes began to swim. Again Simon tried to think about what Hieronymus had told him during their last conversation. Just what were his final words?

The council has ordered me to recopy a huge pile of old, barely legible financial records. .

“He must have found something in these old volumes and receipts,” Simon mumbled to himself. “But what? What, damn it?” He put the book aside, closed his eyes, and tried again to put himself in the place of the clerk. The others watched him-and waited.

I’m grabbing book after book from the shelves, looking, paging through, and finally I find something. I’m in front of the shelves, but the book is too heavy to spend any more time standing here and leafing through it. I can’t hold it any longer, so I go. .

Simon opened his eyes and looked around.

To the lectern.

There in the corner stood the lectern with a pile of books on top. A large book lay open at the bottom of the pile, looking similar to the other books on the floor. Simon hurried over, took the books on top and put them on the floor, and then studied the open page of the book that had been on the bottom. At first he was disappointed, for once again what he saw were lists and columns of income and expenses. But suddenly he noticed a particular name and knew at once he was on the right track.

Confiscation of the property of the Haan family, 4,865 guilders, distributed in equal parts to the commission, the city, and the Prince Bishopric. .

“Did you find something?” Jakob asked, rising from his stool and looming over Simon like a huge shadow.

Simon nodded silently, then continued reading.

. . less 400 guilders to the Carmelite Cloister on the Kaulberg to care for the minor Wolf Christoph Röhm, son of Martin Röhm and Katharina Röhm, née Haan. Attested to December 17, anno domini 1629. .

Now Simon turned to the others, looking at them ashen-faced.

“I think we’ve found our werewolf,” he said in a soft voice. “It says here Wolf Christoph Röhm-son of a Haan, so, in fact, the chancellor did have a grandson. What irony.” He shook his head. “His parents really gave him a suitable name for his crimes to come.”

Magdalena waited impatiently in the little guardroom of the city prison for Captain Lebrecht to finally release her and Bartholomäus. She was certain their family was worried and eagerly awaiting them. But there was nothing they could do-the captain was not going to let them off that easy. It seemed to her he was even intentionally taking his time with the paperwork.

“And you come from Schongau, do you?” he asked her for perhaps the tenth time. “Where’s that again?”

Magdalena sighed. “A few hours south of Augsburg, north of the Alps, like I’ve already told you.”

Lebrecht didn’t answer but continued scratching letters with a quill into a thick folder. Magdalena shifted nervously back and forth in her seat and cast annoyed looks at her uncle.

Just as they’d been leaving the old house with the baboon stashed safely away in the cellar, the city guards, alerted by the beggar Josef, appeared. In a fierce struggle, the men succeeded in pulling the biting and scratching Luther out of the cellar and tying him up. Three guards wrapped the animal in a blanket and took him back to the menagerie, while Captain Lebrecht ordered Magdalena and Bartholomäus to follow him back to the city jail. Ostensibly, the reason was to take their testimony, but Magdalena quickly realized that Martin Lebrecht had something quite different on his mind.

“I want to stress again that nothing-I repeat, absolutely nothing-about this incident is to be made public,” the captain said, gazing sternly at Magdalena. “This order, by the way, comes not from me but from the prince-bishop himself, and I’m telling you this only to stress its urgency. His Excellency fears that the citizens of Bamberg might blame this entire werewolf story on him.”

“But it’s clear that Luther can’t kill or kidnap anyone,” Magdalena added, shaking her head. “He’s much too small for that, and then the traces of all that torture-”

“Perhaps that’s clear to you, but for many people such a strange animal would be taken for an emissary of the devil,” Lebrecht interrupted, sounding exhausted and rubbing his temples. “If you don’t want to obey the order of the bishop, then do it for me. I’ve been looking for this beast for days and am elated that the problem has been solved. It doesn’t do anyone any good if an outraged mob storms the bishop’s menagerie and opens the cages.”

Bartholomäus grinned. “But Solomon, the old bear, would be thrilled. The succulent bodies of people would be much more to his taste than the old, stinking meat scraps that I bring him when I stop by.”

“You’ll have plenty of work to do, Master Bartholomäus,” Lebrecht answered, pointing back to the entrance to the dungeon. “We have almost a dozen sinners here to be tortured soon, most of them actors from that troupe that performed yesterday evening. I hope they’ll confess quickly, so we can finally put an end to this madness.” He sighed. “But I’ve just heard that the torturing will be postponed once again, until after His Excellency the elector and bishop of Würzburg has left the city. These high and mighty gentlemen don’t know what to do, either, and we commoners have to pay for it with this chaos.”

Suddenly the captain stopped short and turned to Magdalena. “It just occurred to me that the leader of this group, a certain Malcolm, asked about you this morning. He urgently wanted to talk to you. I just put him off, but since you’re here. .” He shrugged. “If you wish, I’ll let you in to see him for a few moments. But be careful. We discovered some magical devices in his possession, and he seems to be a warlock.”

Magdalena hesitated. She and Bartholomäus should have returned home hours ago. On the other hand, she couldn’t turn down this request from Sir Malcolm. She was still convinced that he was innocent and the allegedly magical objects were only props. She could certainly find a little time for him. Besides, she was curious what Sir Malcolm might have to say to her.

“I’ll go and visit him,” she said finally. “Where can I find him?”

Lebrecht pointed down the hall. “In the last room. The guards will show you the way. But take the hangman along. Maybe the fellow will soften up a bit when he sees the executioner and we can spare ourselves a long and expensive interrogation.”

Bartholomäus mumbled his agreement, and they had the guards lead them to Malcolm’s cell.

It took a while for Magdalena to spy Malcolm’s crumpled figure in the darkened cell. He lay in a corner like a bundle of carelessly discarded rags. Cautiously, Magdalena walked toward him and bent down to speak. His face was turned toward the wall, and he seemed to be sleeping.

Or is he dead already? The thought flashed through Magdalena’s mind. She noticed the bloodstains spattered on Malcolm’s cloak. Evidently some of the citizens had already taken out their anger on him.

“Sir Malcolm,” she whispered. “Can you hear me?”

Malcolm flinched and slowly turned around, and Magdalena stared into his battered face. She put her hand over her mouth in order not to scream in horror. He’d been so badly beaten that his eyes were nothing more than two slits in a pasty mass of black and blue. He looked more like a monster than Jeremias. Nevertheless, he tried to smile cheerfully, which was clearly hard for him to do with his several missing teeth.

“Ah, the beautiful sister of our most talented actress,” he murmured as if in a dream. “So my pleas were heard. This captain is not as bad a man as I thought.”

“Lebrecht probably saved your life,” Bartholomäus interjected. “You ought to thank him. From what I heard, he and his men stepped in to save you just as the mob was about to string you up from the tallest willow on the Regnitz.”

“Ah, yes, the fate of a great artist,” Malcolm said softly, managing, despite his injuries, to inject a note of pathos into his voice. “Beloved, celebrated, and then cast out just the same.”

“Lebrecht said you wanted to see me,” said Magdalena. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

Malcolm placed his trembling hand on her skirt, to quiet her. “I’m afraid no one can help me now,” he whispered. “I’m dying, like Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar in the third act-slowly, but with style. But my men have not deserved such an exit from the stage.” He coughed. “They’re innocent.”

“Does that mean you are guilty?” Bartholomäus asked. “Speak up, fellow! What do you have to do with all this hocus-pocus? Are you the werewolf?”

Sir Malcolm let out a dry laugh, which quickly turned into a painful coughing fit, and he spat out another tooth. “I’d be a pretty pathetic little wolf,” he croaked, “if I let myself be whipped like that by a few thugs. You can bet on it, hangman-if I’d played the part, I would have been the greatest werewolf of all time, fearsome and powerful, with a voice rumbling like an approaching tornado, and-”

“Unfortunately, I’m afraid we don’t have much time,” Magdalena interrupted. “The guards are telling us to be quick. So is there something you wanted to tell me?”

Malcolm nodded. “You’re right, I should shorten the monologue, that’s what people keep telling me. Very well.” He took a deep breath, then continued in a whisper. “They say they found objects of mine that I used for incantations and magic, but I swear I’ve never seen those things before. After all, I know how dangerous such props can be in a Catholic bishopric. I’m asking you: a child’s skull?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Things like that are found only in tawdry farces. At first I thought Guiscard had planted these knickknacks on me-”

“Unlike your troupe, he and his men were able to get out of town in time,” Bartholomäus interrupted. “Lebrecht told me that earlier. Apparently Guiscard bribed one of the guards at the gate.”

Malcolm flashed him a toothless grin. “Hah! That rabble packed up their things while we were still on stage. I saw it with my own eyes. Guiscard knew he’d lost. What an ingenious move of mine to convince him to play that boring Papinian while we performed Peter Squenz. I upstaged them all, and Barbara played her role splendidly. We’re the clear winners.”

“Guiscard would probably see it differently,” Magdalena replied. “In any case, he’s free, and you’re lying here in the dungeon. But you were going to tell us who planted these magical things on you, I think.”

“Well, I assume it’s the same person responsible for all the murders in Bamberg,” Malcolm said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hush. “I had lots of time last night to think about that, and I have a suspicion who it might be. And finally, I put two and two together. .”

Malcolm started talking, and as he did, Magdalena felt a chill running up her spine.

It looked like they’d finally found their werewolf.

A rowboat was making its way slowly downstream on the Regnitz. Two people sat inside, one pulling hard on the oars and steering the boat past the many islands of mud, gravel, and flot-sam. Here in the southeastern part of Bamberg, the forest extended down to the shore, where many brooks and tributaries carrying leaves and branches emptied into the wide river.

Exhausted, Barbara snuggled up in the woolen blanket that Markus Salter had given her before they’d left. She sat on a wooden box in the stern of the boat, looking out at the marshland with its willows, birches, and little ponds as they drifted past. A light but constant drizzle had set in, gradually soaking them to the skin.

“Is it much farther?” she asked, her arms covered with goose bumps.

Markus Salter shook his head. He briefly stopped rowing and pointed toward a hill about half a mile away, with a few houses on top. “Up ahead of us is the little town of Wunderburg,” he said, turning more cheerful. “In the Great War, the Swedes destroyed much of the town, but the bishop’s stud farm is still there, so there are a lot of warm stables where we can hide. We can stay there for a while, and when things have calmed down a bit, I’ll go back to the city and tell your father you’re all right. I promise.”

He winked at her, and Barbara nodded gratefully. She was extremely happy to have Markus Salter by her side. For half the night, he’d consoled her when she kept waking up with a start from bad dreams. With soothing words he’d urged her to persevere, promising that this nightmare would soon end, and he’d even gotten her to laugh a few times with poems and lines from comedies. Without him, she would have no doubt left the crypt too soon and fallen into the hands of the marauding gangs still wandering through the streets of Bamberg in search of witches and werewolves.

They had stayed down there until morning while Markus told her about his adventurous life as an actor and playwright. He came from a well-to-do family, and his father had been a cloth merchant in Cologne. Markus had studied law, but then he’d seen Sir Malcolm and his actors at Neumarkt Square in Cologne and immediately fallen under their spell. On the spur of the moment he left his family, and since then was completely engrossed in the world of Shakespeare, Marlowe, and Gryphius.

Although Markus Salter had clearly led an exciting life, Barbara was slowly coming to the realization that she herself was not suited for such an existence. Just the last few days without her family had been painful enough, and the thought of always being alone on the road, without a home, without a family-even a family as querulous and stubborn as the Kuisls-was too much for her. She wanted to get back to her grumpy father, to her sister with the two boys, and to her twin brother, Georg, whom she hadn’t seen for so long.

She wanted to go home.

Markus had convinced her to wait until early the next morning, when most of the rowdy bands had finally dispersed and the good citizens were in the All Souls’ mass. Around nine o’clock, disguised as Carmelite monks, they’d snuck through the streets down toward the mills near the castle. There Markus soon found an abandoned boat, in which he planned to take her to a hiding place he’d learned about during an earlier visit to Bamberg.

At first they traveled downstream past the city. Then they floated back up the right branch of the Regnitz toward Bamberg again, looking for a place to land on the eastern shore near the little town of Wunderburg. Over the tops of the trees they could see the walls of the city and the cathedral, but except for the occasional chirping of a blackbird and the distant sound of men chopping wood in the forest, everything around them was quiet and peaceful.

In the meantime, it had started to rain harder, and despite her heavy monk’s robe and the blanket, Barbara felt chilled to the bone.

“Haven’t you ever thought of starting a family?” she asked, her teeth chattering, as Markus guided the boat toward a small, reed-choked estuary. The actor still had a slight pain on his right side, but it seemed Barbara had done a good job of cleaning the wound-when she’d changed the bandage again that morning, she hadn’t noticed any inflammation.

Markus thought for a moment before answering. “I’m afraid I have difficulty committing myself,” he said finally. “I’m too afraid I’m going to lose the person again. People die, and some far before their time-not just the old ones, but beloved wives and even children. The nagging fear of being left alone again would drive me crazy.”

Barbara frowned. “I never looked at it that way before.”

“Ask your father or your uncle. They know how fast we can be overcome by death. After all, they themselves are often the cause.” His face darkened. Dressed in his monk’s robe and with his hood pulled down over his face, the haggard actor looked like a stern, ascetic preacher. “How can anyone ever live with that-all the sorrow and screams a hangman must bear? I couldn’t, at least not for long. It would destroy me.”

“I think my father and my uncle don’t look at themselves at such times as human beings, but as”-Barbara searched for the suitable word-“as tools. They act on behalf of a higher power, the city or the church.”

“Tools of a higher power.” Salter nodded. “I like that. I’ll use it in one of my tragedies, with your permission.” He smiled sadly. “In a very special tragedy, in fact-my best one. All it lacks are a few suitable sentences for a conclusion.”

He thrust the oar down with all his strength, propelling the boat toward the shore, where it ran aground and remained stuck in the mud. A dense growth of reeds grew all around them, and the branches of a weeping willow hung far down into the water, blocking their view of the surroundings.

“We’re stopping here?” Barbara asked with surprise.

Markus jumped into the knee-deep water and waded the last few steps to the shore, where he tied the boat securely to the trunk of the willow tree.

“It’s not far now to Wunderburg,” he replied, “and the boat is well-hidden here.” With a cheerful smile, he reached out to give Barbara a hand. “Come now.”

She got up, shivering, and was about to climb over the side when she lost her balance in the rocking boat, slipped on the bottom, wet from the rain, and fell. She landed painfully on her tailbone and, to make matters worse, also hit her head on the boat box. As she pulled herself up again, cursing, she caught sight of something she hadn’t noticed before in the drizzling rain.

There was blood on the box.

She assumed at first it was fish blood, as this was clearly the boat of a fisherman who probably kept his daily catch in the box. But then she took a closer look. There was too much of it here to be just fish blood-and besides, the stain had an intense reddish-brown color all too familiar to Barbara as a hangman’s daughter.

That wasn’t fish blood, it was human blood.

Her mind racing, she looked at the partially coagulated liquid streaking down the side of the box.

“For heaven’s sake, what. .,” she said instinctively.

The box creaked on its hinges as she slowly opened it. She didn’t know what might be inside, but her heart was pounding wildly. She suspected that whatever it was would shake her already deeply wounded psyche.

The first thing she saw were a few wolf pelts, which appeared to have been tossed carelessly into the box. Then, underneath them, the hide of a stag with its antlers, a wild boar pelt, a badly worn bearskin. .

Carefully, Barbara pushed the stinking pelts aside. When she finally recognized what was underneath, her heart skipped a beat. She wanted to scream, but not a word escaped her lips.

She was staring, horrified, into the blood-covered face of a man. He was gagged, and someone had tied his body up into a net so tightly that it almost looked like a bundle of slimy fish. She thought she recognized the man, even though his face was almost completely mutilated and covered with blood.

“My God,” Barbara gasped in a fading voice, as her strength ebbed from her body.

At that moment she heard a whoosh of air, and something struck her with brutal force on the back of the head. With a groan, she fell forward, and even before she hit the bottom of the boat, a merciful unconsciousness came over her. Markus Salter was standing over her, holding the bloodstained oar in his hand like a hangman with his sword.

“The tool of a higher power,” he whispered, and a grin flickered across his face. He took off his hood as the rain streamed down his face, and he let out a loud howl-the howl of a wolf.

“I like that, Barbara. I’m a tool and nothing more.”

Then he seized the unconscious girl, threw her over his shoulder, and carried her away into the nearby swamp.

Hurried footsteps came up the stairway to Hauser’s study, and then the door opened with a crash. Simon, still standing at the lectern with the open book, jumped. In the doorway stood Magdalena and Bartholomäus.

“Magdalena!” Simon cried out with relief. “You’re back. I was so worried about you-”

“No time for long-winded greetings,” she interrupted as she struggled for breath. “I think we finally know who our werewolf is. Sir Malcolm just told us.”

“Sir Malcolm?” Jakob said, looking at her in astonishment. “But he’s in the city dungeon. What in God’s name were you doing there?”

“We’ll tell you all about it later,” Bartholomäus replied. “Now listen to what your daughter has to say. It’s just the suspicion of a poor gallows bird who’s trying to wriggle his head out of a noose, and perhaps he’s just telling us lies, but what he says actually sounds pretty reasonable.”

By now, the two new arrivals had entered the small room. Magdalena stood in the middle and peered urgently at Simon, Jeremias, and her father.

“Markus Salter is the one we’re looking for,” she declared. “The group’s playwright. Sir Malcolm has been watching him closely for some time, because of all the strange things he’s been doing.”

“And what would those be?” Simon inquired, trying to sound matter-of-fact. He was still so relieved to see Magdalena again that he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and kiss her. But at the moment his wife didn’t seem to want that.

“Some time ago,” she answered breathlessly, “Markus Salter wrote a piece that he very much wanted the actors to perform, but it was too bloody and weird for Malcolm’s taste. It was about a child from a powerful family, all of whom were slaughtered in a power struggle between patricians. Later, as a young man, the hero takes out his bloody revenge. Again and again, Salter urged Malcolm to stage this tragedy. He must have been really fanatic about it, though he didn’t want to show anyone the piece in advance, and only dropped veiled hints as to what was in it.”

“And you believe this play describes Salter’s own life?” Kuisl said. “Isn’t that a bit far-fetched?”

“I’m not finished.” Magdalena gave her father a stern look. “Recently, Malcolm had a chance to secretly read the play. It contains a number of torture scenes, and a werewolf appears in it as a sort of supernatural avenger. Malcolm described the play as even bloodier and madder than Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus. I’m not familiar with that tragedy, but it must be one long bloodbath.”

“My God,” Simon gasped. “Do you think Markus Salter is putting on his own play here in Bamberg-and with regular people instead of actors?”

Magdalena nodded excitedly. “The troupe visited Bamberg six months ago, and since then, according to Malcolm, Salter has been almost unapproachable, always working like a madman on this piece. It was Salter who insisted on taking up winter quarters here in Bamberg, and he finally convinced Malcolm. He even took a side trip here earlier in order to prepare everything for the troupe.”

“If Salter really did visit Bamberg before,” Bartholomäus said, “it’s possible he was responsible for the earlier murders. Until now we always thought the actors couldn’t have been involved, since they only came to the city later.”

“And that’s not all,” Magdalena continued. “It seems that Salter originally came from Bamberg-at least that’s what he once told Malcolm. In talking to me, however, he once said that as a child he’d been involved in the witches’ trials in Nuremberg-”

“Well, if our assumptions are correct, the man was involved in a very special way with the witch trials here,” Simon interrupted. He showed Magdalena the document on the lectern. “It appears that Markus Salter is none other than Wolf Christoph Haan, the grandson of George Haan, the chancellor in Bamberg at the time. All the members of the family, except for Wolf Christoph, were executed during the trials. What we see here is devilish vengeance, planned down to the smallest detail.”

Magdalena nodded. “It must have taken quite a lot of energy,” she mused. “Malcolm said that in recent days Markus Salter has been tired and distracted, and he often missed rehearsals.”

“If he really abducted and tortured all these people, he was a pretty busy fellow,” Jeremias chimed in with a giggle. The old man had been drinking mulled wine all the while, and evidently he’d finished the entire pitcher. “Just torturing with tongs takes a lot of time,” he said with a heavy tongue. “They have to be heated just so much, then you start with the arms and then sloooowly go down-”

“Thank you, that’s enough,” Simon interrupted. He looked Jeremias up and down, disgusted, before continuing. “Salter could have planted the wolf pelts on Matheo. Also, his age appears about right. According to the documents, Wolf Christoph Haan was four years old at the time, and if I remember correctly, Salter is now a little past forty. It seems likely that Haan and Salter are one and the same person.” He frowned. “But there’s still the question how he infected the suffragan bishop with rabies.”

Magdalena looked at Simon in surprise. “What rabies?”

“While you were on your little jaunt through Bamberg with your uncle, my friend Samuel and I weren’t completely idle,” he replied. “His Excellency the elector and Würzburg Bishop Schönborn, with whom we enjoyed a long, very friendly conversation, was quite impressed with our observations.”

“Stop this high-and-mighty rubbish and get to the point,” Jakob growled.

“Ah, indeed.” Simon told his wife and Bartholomäus the horrifying news of the suffragan bishop’s illness and what he suspected.

“We are presently trying to figure out what animal could have infected Harsee,” he concluded. “It certainly wasn’t a dog, as the bite is too small, but perhaps it was a rat or a bat. We think it had to be a small wild animal-”

“My God. Juliet!” Magdalena exclaimed. “Of course, it was Juliet, or Romeo.”

Simon looked at her, puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Magdalena, but let me tell you there was no one-”

“Not people, but ferrets.” She laughed and turned to the others, who stared at her in confusion. “Markus Salter has two tame ferrets-Romeo and Juliet. Some time ago, Romeo ran away-at least, that’s what he told me. But suppose he infected Romeo or Juliet with this rabies and somehow smuggled them into Harsee’s room. Would that be possible?”

Simon let out a loud groan. “A ferret, damn it! It actually could have been a ferret. Probably Salter gave it an animal to eat that had just died of rabies. There is no guard at the suffragan bishop’s house, and it would certainly be possible for someone to slip in at night and put a sick ferret in the bedroom. Later, the animal could disappear through a crack in the wall or a mouse hole. What a devilish plan.”

“And now Salter has probably got his hands on Hieronymus,” Jakob grumbled. “He’s the last one on the committee, so if we don’t act fast, then-”

“Father. .,” Georg interrupted in a soft voice.

“Damn it,” Jakob snapped. “Haven’t I told you a thousand times not to interrupt your father? It seems Bartholomäus hasn’t taught you any manners in the last two years.”

“How can you ever expect the boy to learn if you talk to him like that?” Bartholomäus shot back. “You treat him just the way you did me. But I’m not going to let you get away-”

“Quiet! Both of you!”

Georg had pounded the lectern so hard that the documents nearly fell to the floor. Then he turned angrily to his astonished father and the equally astonished Bartholomäus.

“I’m sick and tired of your endless squabbling,” he scolded. “If you don’t stop it, I won’t stay in Bamberg nor go back to Schongau, either, but I’ll look for a job as an executioner at the other end of the Reich so I don’t have to put up with your quarreling anymore. And now just listen to me for a change.”

He pointed at the document and took a deep breath.

“You say that Hieronymus is the last one to be involved in this, but that’s not correct. There’s still someone missing here.”

“And who do you think that might be?” asked Simon, as astonished as the others over the outburst.

Georg shrugged as if the answer was obvious. “Well, the executioner, of course. He was present at all the questionings, as one of the head people, so to speak.”

“You’re right,” Jeremias concurred, nodding his alcohol-befuddled head. “But this Salter fellow doesn’t know me, and even if he did read about me in the old documents, he’ll only find reference to Michael Binder, and that person has been gone a long time.”

Georg nodded. “No, he doesn’t know you, he only knows the current Bamberg executioner, Bartholomäus-and naturally he assumes that Bartholomäus is related to the former hangman. And why shouldn’t he? After all, the executioner’s job is almost always passed down from father to son.”

“If this pathetic little werewolf tries to kidnap me,” Bartholomäus growled, “I’ll show him who I am.”

“He doesn’t have to kidnap you, Uncle Bartl,” Georg said, “because he probably already has someone else from the family in his hands.” Mournfully, he turned to the others. “The werewolf has captured Barbara because she’s Bartholomäus’s niece, and we’ll only be able to save her if we can finally stop this endless quarreling.” One by one, he turned to look at each of them. “Please promise me that! We Kuisls have to stick together now, or my sister is lost.”

A sound in Adelheid Rinswieser’s cell startled her from her macabre dreams and brought her back to reality.

She’d spent the last few hours half-asleep, with the constant fear that the strange growling monster might return. But everything around her had turned silent-as silent as the grave. Even the birds had stopped chirping, and all she could hear was the distant, constant sound of falling rain. The sound of the water made her thirst almost unbearable, but just the same she’d been able to doze off briefly. But now she heard something coming from the floor above her, at first a clicking. .

Then a bolt being pushed aside. .

A squeaking. .

And then the door opening. He was coming back.

Adelheid didn’t know whether to laugh or scream in horror. She’d become convinced the man would just let her rot away down here. Too much time had passed since his last visit. But now he was back, and that could only mean it was her turn now. Or perhaps it wasn’t him at all? Was it someone else, maybe someone who’d just come here to check on her, a random visitor?

A savior?

“Help!” she screamed hysterically. “I’m here! Here in the cellar! Please, whoever you are up there, come and let me out!”

Adelheid tugged furiously at her shackles, which still didn’t yield even a fraction of an inch, struggling to turn toward the door, where she could hear slow footsteps approaching. They came down the steps, but heavier than usual-much heavier. That wasn’t the man-it had to be someone else.

“Here! Here!” she called. “I’m in here!”

Again she heard a grating sound as the bolt to her cell slid open. The door creaked and swung open, and Adelheid froze.

In the doorway stood her captor.

Over his shoulder he was carrying a black-haired girl, around fifteen years old, who was either unconscious or dead. Strangely, she was wearing a monk’s cape, and dried blood clung to her hair. The kidnapper also was wearing such a cloak, making him look like the high priest of some unfathomably evil sect.

Adelheid’s disappointment was so great that she couldn’t utter a sound.

“Greetings, my love,” the man panted, carefully setting his burden down on the floor. “It took a while, but I’m back. Everything is ready for your final act.”

He stepped outside to fetch a torch, which he inserted into an iron ring on the wall, then pulled out a leather strap and bound the younger girl’s arms and legs. Though blood glistened in the girl’s hair and on her face, Adelheid could see she was still alive; her kidnapper would hardly go to the trouble of tying up a corpse like a bundle of rags.

“Who. . who is that?” she managed to ask.

“Oh, this?” The man looked up and smiled. It was a gentle smile, though in a strange way also a sad one; it seemed inconsistent with his cruel actions. “This is the only one I hadn’t caught yet,” he said. “A hangman’s daughter. The second scribe is lying in the boat, and I don’t know if he’s still alive. But in any case, we’re done now.” He made a sweeping gesture. “Curtain up for the grand finale.”

Exhausted, Adelheid regarded her captor, whom she was sure she recognized now. About half a year ago she’d visited the wedding house in Bamberg with her husband to see a performance by a wandering troupe of actors. Since then, she’d almost completely forgotten the piece-some comedy with a clown and a few other fools. Her husband had enjoyed it all immensely, but she’d found the crude jokes offensive. Only one of the actors had awakened her interest: a man with a sort of dark magnetism that didn’t seem at all appropriate in the comedy. He was very pale, with thinning hair, and there was a deep sadness in his eyes that made him strangely attractive.

He looked just as sad now.

“Hangman’s daughter? Scribe?” Adelheid mumbled, to give herself time to think, if nothing else. “I don’t understand. .”

“You don’t have to.”

He stood up and removed his hood, then wiped his mud- and blood-stained hands on his torn vest. “Basically, you are. .” He hesitated. “Well, something like bit players. Excuse me. I’m just going to get the scribe. Then I’ll be back for you all. Forever.”

He bowed as if before an invisible audience, then went outside, pulling the door closed behind him.

Adelheid closed her eyes and whimpered softly. She knew that the end was nigh. Her abductor might not be a werewolf, but he had an almost bestial glitter in his eyes. There was no way out.

After Georg had spoken, it was silent in the study for a long time. Outside, a heavy rain was drumming down on the roof of the house. Finally, slowly and deliberately, like a giant boulder coming to life, Jakob nodded.

“Georg, you’re right,” he said softly. “We haven’t seen the forest for the trees. This madman thinks that by seizing Barbara, he has a relative of the former Bamberg executioner in his clutches. He abducted not just Hauser, but also my little girl, and he’ll pay a heavy price for that.”

Magdalena saw how he clenched his fists as his face became nearly expressionless. She had seen her father before in a situation like this, and she knew he was far more dangerous now than when he was ranting and making a fuss.

That’s the way he is just before the executions, she thought. Clear and cold as rock crystal.

He turned suddenly to Bartholomäus and Georg. “You two know your way around in this city and the surroundings. Is there someplace around here you haven’t checked yet that this Salter, or Haan, might have taken my daughter?”

Georg seemed to be thinking. “I can’t tell you we’ve turned over every stone in Bamberg this morning. Of course he could have hidden her in some cellar. . but I don’t think so.”

“And what do you think, then, O wise one?”

“I think he’s hiding her somewhere outside of town.” It seemed like Georg was doing everything he could to build up his own courage, and his words now sounded more confident and animated. “Salter could have taken his two prisoners, if they were still alive, out of town in a fishing boat. In that way he evades the checks at the city gates, and if he hides them under a blanket or something, no one will notice. That’s what I would do.”

“He’ll probably take them to the same place he’s hiding his other prisoners, and torture and kill them there,” Magdalena interjected. Just the thought of what her sister might be facing made her sick to her stomach, but she tried to concentrate on what was important. “It would have to be a lonely place where no one would disturb him,” she continued. “On the other hand, he can’t be too far away, either. After all, Salter had to return to the rehearsals in the wedding house, especially in the last few days.”

Jakob rubbed his huge nose, as he always did when he was concentrating, then turned to Bartholomäus.

“Do you remember our visit to the ragpicker Answin?” he asked. “He told us that he fished out the corpse of the patrician Vasold, as well as the severed body parts, from the right branch of the Regnitz. It seems logical that they were carried there by the current from somewhere upriver where Salter had disposed of them-probably close to his hideout, since he’d have to drag the corpses from the hideout to the river.”

Bartholomäus nodded. “You may be right, but where?” Now he began to rub his nose, as well.

Simon started counting off on his fingers everything they’d learned up to that point. “Let’s proceed logically. We’re looking for some secluded spot close to the river and also not too far from the city. It must be a cellar, or at least a house, since the madman tortures his victims for a period of time. He needs someplace where he can confine them. He also needs a fire, tools-”

“A secluded spot. .” Bartholomäus stared into space, as if imagining all the possible places. “Close to the river. . a house. . or a cellar. .”

Suddenly he let out a yelp. “That’s it!”

Magdalena stared at him intently. “What, then?”

“The old hunting house near Wunderburg,” he quickly explained. “I was even in that area with Aloysius a few days ago, looking for Brutus. But my concern for my dog must have distracted me.” He slapped his forehead. “The hunting house would be the ideal hideout. Until a few decades ago, the bishop’s master of the hunt lived there, but then came the war, and with it the Swedes. Now the house is just a ruin, though it’s still well fortified. It’s made partially of stone and has a roomy cellar.”

“That’s right,” Jakob chimed in, “you told me about it the first time we met in the knacker’s cabin, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. I just thought you were bragging about the new hunting lodge the bishop had assigned to you.”

“It’s a gloomy place, and people avoid it because they think it’s haunted,” Bartholomäus continued. “But as a hideout, it’s perfect. The house is close to the river and not too far from the city.” He nodded grimly. “If we’ve guessed right, the old hunting lodge is the place we’re looking for.”

“It’s possible Salter knows the lodge from earlier times,” Magdalena added, “or that he discovered it on his last visit to Bamberg. Or perhaps-”

“There’s no time for a long discussion,” her father interrupted gruffly. “My little girl is in danger, so let’s get moving.”

“But if it isn’t this hunting lodge?” Georg added skeptically. “If-”

“If, if, if.” Kuisl glared at his son. “Do you have a better plan? Or do you just want to sit around here and brood, while this madman is possibly even now tearing out Barbara’s fingernails?”

“Perhaps we could at least alert the city guards,” Simon said. “After all, this man is dangerous. Don’t forget that he’s tortured and killed seven people.”

“If that’s all that’s bothering you, I can reassure you,” Jakob replied. “I’ve dispatched and sent to their final resting places far more people than this little wolf-man.” He turned to the others. “So who wants to come along with me?”

Timidly, Georg raised his hand, but Jakob just looked down at him. “You? I’m surprised-this is no job for a bed wetter.”

“We’ll all come along with you,” Magdalena announced in a severe tone. “Barbara is not just your daughter, she’s also our sister.”

Her father sneered. “Ha! That would be some state of affairs if my own daughter could tell me whom I can take along and who stays behind.”

“Do you seriously believe I’m going to stay home with the two boys on my lap while my little sister is perhaps at this very moment being tortured?” she hissed. “You’d have to tie me down.”

“Then who’s going to take care of the children, and Katharina?” he grumbled. “Simon, perhaps?”

“I’m coming along, too,” Simon replied firmly. “And Georg is a brave, strong fellow. We’ll surely be able to use him.”

“I think it would actually be good for Katharina if we let her take care of the children,” said Bartholomäus. “Then she’d have something to do to distract her from her sorrow. I’ve also asked her aunt to come over. She’s such a chatterbox that Katharina won’t even have time to worry.”

“So that means that you, too-” Jakob started to say, but Bartholomäus cut him off.

“After all, she’s my niece,” he answered. “You can forget about leaving me behind. You would be blabbing to everyone that your little brother weaseled out. So let’s go.”

As he turned toward the door, there was a hiccupping sound from the far end of the room, and the scratching of a chair being pushed back. Jeremias had struggled to his feet, swaying a bit, but his voice was clear and determined.

“I’m coming, too,” he said, clinging to the table for support. “This madman was out to get me, and not Barbara, so I’ll come along and pay him a visit. That’s the least I can do for your girl. I’m already responsible for the death of one young girl, and that’s enough.”

“Well, what can I say, but don’t throw up in the Regnitz.” Jakob raised his head and looked each one in the eye. Then he let out a deep sigh. “It seems no one here is going to listen to me, anyway. So be it, and now let’s all go out together on our wolf hunt.” His eyes suddenly turned to narrow slits. “But I swear to you, if this werewolf harms even a hair on Barbara’s head, I’ll bring him to the Schongau torture chamber and skin him alive with my own hands.”

A dull pain pounded inside Barbara’s head as she groaned and rolled restlessly back and forth.

Where am I? What happened?

She tried to sit up, but there was something holding her back. She shook, and pain shot through the back of her head. At the same time, she realized her hands and feet were in shackles. Now everything started to come back to her.

Markus Salter. The man in the boat box. All the blood.

“Help!” Barbara screamed without knowing where she was or whether anyone could hear her. Her vision was still blurred from the blow with which Salter had knocked her unconscious.

“Help! Is anyone there?”

“You can spare yourself all the shouting,” said a hoarse voice nearby. “I’m the only one here, and I can’t help you.”

Barbara struggled to turn her aching head. She squinted, and after a while her vision grew clearer. She was lying on the bare floor of a stone room illuminated by just a single torch. Dressed only in the wet monk’s robe, she shivered in a draft of cold air coming through a tiny opening near the ceiling, through which she could see the night sky.

A woman was lying on a cot in one corner. Her blond hair was dirty and matted, her once-beautiful dress tattered, and her cheeks sunken like those of a corpse. Nevertheless, she attempted a smile.

“I’d like to tell you there’s nothing to fear, little one,” she said in a weakened voice. “But I fear that would not be the truth.”

“Where is he?” Barbara asked.

“Our abductor?” The woman groaned as she tried to turn in Barbara’s direction. Only now did Barbara realize that she, too, was shackled. “I thought you could tell me. He only said he’d have to go and get the scribe.”

The scribe. .

Barbara was shocked. The face of the person shackled and lying in the boat box had been so covered with blood that she hadn’t recognized at first who it was. But now she knew. It was Hieronymus Hauser, Katharina’s father. Shortly after the Kuisls arrived in Bamberg, he’d come to pick up his daughter one night at the executioner’s house. A pleasant-looking, chubby man whose features she’d almost forgotten until now. What, in God’s name, was going on?

“If you want to know why he’s doing this, little one, I can’t tell you,” the woman continued as if reading Barbara’s mind. “But you must know we are not the first. He brings all his prisoners here-old and young, women and men-then he questions, tortures, and kills them, as if they were witches. For days I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out why he does it, but by God, I just don’t know, any more than I know why he has spared me until now.”

“He’s an actor,” Barbara whispered. “He comes from a group of itinerant actors.”

“I know, my dear. Earlier, he was going on and on about how we were coming to the final act, and we were just his bit players. I think we have to assume he’s insane.” The woman heaved a sigh and suddenly appeared deeply saddened. “So there’s probably no point in wondering why he’s doing this. We will die. . for no reason. But who says there always has to be a reason to die?” Then she turned again to Barbara with a tired smile. “If I understood him correctly, you are a hangman’s daughter. Is that right? I’ve never seen you in town before.”

“I come from Schongau,” Barbara whispered. “That’s down by the Alps.” She told the woman a bit about herself and what she’d experienced in Bamberg. It helped, at least for a short time, to clear her head and put the nightmare behind her. The stranger told Barbara her name was Adelheid Rinswieser and she was the wife of an apothecary in Bamberg. Evidently she was one of the people who’d disappeared, and gradually Barbara came to the awareness that the nice man Markus Salter was indeed the horrible werewolf-and that she was now one of his victims.

Suddenly, small details came to mind: Salter’s constant fatigue, his dark gaze, the wolf pelts in Matheo’s chest, and Salter’s sudden decision to take her out of Bamberg just after she’d told him she was the niece of the Bamberg hangman.

Now she remembered how surprised, almost horrified, he’d acted when she told him.

After lying there in silence for a while, listening to the rain outside pouring down harder and harder on the roof, she asked, “What is he going to do with us? Is he going to kill us, like all the rest?”

“When he’s finished with us here he’ll take us over to another room,” Adelheid replied darkly. “I’ve seen it. It’s. . horrible, like something out of your worst nightmares.” She looked at Barbara gloomily. “But listen, I’ve still not given up. Now there are two of us, and soon perhaps three if that scribe is still alive and comes to join us. Perhaps then we’ll have a chance. Perhaps-”

She hesitated on hearing a bolt being slid back above them on the ground floor. There were heavy footsteps and something came bumping down the stairs, one at a time. Barbara assumed that Salter was dragging the heavyset Hieronymus Hauser down to the cellar. But strangely, the steps were not heading toward their cell, but in the opposite direction. She heard another door squeaking as it opened.

“Oh, God,” Adelheid gasped. “He’s taking him to the torture chamber and starting with him right away.” Her eyes flickered in the dim light. “I don’t know if I can stand that again.”

Tensely, the women listened for sounds at the other end of the hall. Apparently Salter had left the door to the hall open. The women could hear groans, then a rasping and clicking sound, and then the steps once again.

This time the steps were approaching.