The Salzburg Executioner by L.A. Fatzinger

Author:L.A. Fatzinger [Fatzinger, L.A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CopertinaPezzi
Published: 2024-12-10T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

Dressed in the clothes he'd discarded on the bathroom floor hours earlier, James hobbled down the stairs and into the lobby.

The space was quiet, save for the early morning kitchen personnel starting to prepare breakfast. A sign informed late-night guests that the manager would return at 0600.

Before walking outside, James raised his hand to wipe sweat off his brow. His index finger rubbed against his forehead's dry skin, with no perspiration to rub off. He looked down at his index finger, free of the blood from his nose.

Shit, he thought. Blood on my forehead now.

He rushed to a mirror at the entryway of the hotel, expecting to see a long streak of blood across his forehead. But it was clean and dry. And pale.

Outside, the early morning air was cold and damp. The kind of cold that can see around corners and in between the seams of jackets and hats.

His head throbbed, his mind fragmented and bouncing without resolution. What once was a meticulous mind capable of solving complex equations now felt like a kaleidoscope of scattered scenes and memories.

He turned onto the same path he had walked two nights prior. Past the fortress and the hotel.

Nothing is open in Salzburg on Sunday, the day of rest.

He stopped in front of the restaurant where he'd dined a few nights prior. The white Renaissance-style two-story building, shuttered and dark, the outdoor heaters and umbrellas stored away.

The restaurant where the proprietor introduced him to his own infamous last name. Wohlmuth. The executioner. Franz Joseph Wohlmuth.

The Wohlmuth terminated from the company he and Vik built. The Wohlmuth who exposed the dangers of the technology that triggered his wife into suicide, telling all the other companies it was okay to inundate her with content that was dangerous for her state of mind. The Wohlmuth who arrived in Salzburg before the company shut him out, cutting off his connections to everything he had worked for.

A man named Franz Joseph Wohlmuth lived and worked in a house on the other side of the pond here, James recalled the restaurant proprietor having said. Just over a kilometer in that direction.

James turned toward the pond. He walked the wide gravel path that circled it, his footsteps crunching rhythmically against the gravel. A lone jogger passed him, glancing back briefly to assess whether this man—disheveled, half-tucked shirt, and vacant eyes—posed a threat or was merely coming off a long, regretful night.

The path led to a residential road that crossed a narrow canal before opening into a large, grassy field. In the center stood a weathered house built in traditional Austrian style, an old barn with its dark wooden beams stark against the pale morning sky.

"Wohlmuth's house," James said aloud. "The Salzburg executioner's house."

The large expanse of history pressed against his chest. He felt it in the ground beneath him. And in the breeze that moved the tall grass on the field, swaying back and forth. Predictable, like masts on sailboats.

He closed his eyes and began swaying back and forth, allowing his motion to mimic the movement of the grass.

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