Page 103 of Denied Access
He had immediately recognized what the open gate and empty gatehouse signified and had spent the seconds it had taken to hurtle up the driveway fortifying himself for what he would find in the house proper. He thought he’d done a reasonable job.
He hadn’t.
Carl Ohlmeyer and his beloved wife were each tied to a chair. Chairs that were facing each other. The unspeakable things done to Elsa Ohlmeyer were matched only by the look of horror on Carl’s dead face. The implication was obvious—the banker had been forced to watch as his wife was tortured to death. The rage that had been building since the gatehouse now threatened to burst free of the bulwarks Rapp had erected to contain it. He wanted to scream. To rend things end to end. To vent his anger on anything and everything within reach.
He did not.
Instead, Rapp kept his pistol oriented down the long hallway leading to the still-uncleared house while he forced himself to check Carl’s neck for a pulse. There was no need to do the same for his wife.
There wasn’t much left of her neck.
Greta’s grandfather was mercifully dead, but he hadn’t gone easy. As with his wife, Herr Ohlmeyer had been tortured. But unlike her wounds, which served only to cause pain, his had been meant to send a message. The banker’s shirt was unbuttoned and a word was carved into his bare chest. Rapp was studying the letters, trying to make sense of their unfamiliar meaning, when a footfall sounded.
From behind him.
Turning, Rapp centered the pistol on the figure framed in the doorway.
“No!”
Greta’s wail was more animal than human.
She ran toward the chairs.
Rapp caught her by the torso as she tried to push past and spun her into the air. “You don’t want to see this,” he said, pressing her face against him. “Trust me—you don’t want to see this.”
He carried her outside as she sobbed against his chest, only setting her down once they reached the BMW. “Why didn’t you stay in the car?”
“You had a phone call. They said it was life-or-death.”
For the first time, he realized that she had his cell clutched in her hands. Prying the mobile from her fingers, he put the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
The cigarette-saturated voice was instantly recognizable.
Stan Hurley.
“What?” Rapp said, his tone reflecting his anger.
“Tough day?”
“I’m at Ohlmeyer’s place.”
“Shit. Is it bad?”
“Just a sec.” Rapp opened the passenger door and helped Greta inside. “It’s Stan,” he said, pointing at the phone. “I need to take this.”
Her vacant stare provided no recognition that she’d heard, let alone understood, him. Rapp buckled her seat belt, kissed her forehead, andthen gently closed the door. After putting some distance between himself and Greta, he held the phone back to his ear.
“Really bad,” Rapp said. “Ohlmeyer and his wife are both dead. I think they tortured her and made him watch. The things they did to her make the Hezbollah thugs from Beirut look like card-carrying members of the Geneva Convention. Greta saw it before I could stop her.”
“Motherfuckers. Any idea who?”
Rapp eyed the door, considering his answer. “They killed his dogs too. One of them is still dying. The other’s body was warm to the touch. I think we just missed the hitters.”
The image of the car that had nearly run him off the road flashed through his mind. Rapp pictured the driver. The man with the asymmetrical eyes.
