The Gestapo had its own jail, in Boston.
Zelda followed Voight out of the elevator into what a small sign identified as the incident room. The sterile environment and the sense of dread that hung in the air made her skin crawl. She didn’t know why he’d made her come, and wished she were anywhere else. Half a dozen men had assembled, waiting for him to arrive. Seeing them like this, all in street clothes, brought home to her just how little she knew about what really happened in the world she now occupied. The incongruity of their casual attire and the grim purpose of their gathering made her stomach churn.
Mercifully, though, she was invisible.
“Heil Hitler,” came the chorus, chillingly in unison.
Voight raised his arm from the elbow in a half salute, then conferred in low tones with someone Zelda didn’t recognize. She strained to hear their conversation, catching only snippets. “Has anyone spoken to him?” Voight’s voice was smooth, almost conversational.
“No.” The reply was curt, businesslike.
Ranged along one plain cinderblock wall were three doors, each with a window next to it, like oversized TV screens. Zelda peered through one, finding a room just large enough for a suspect and two officers. There were eye bolts in the floor underneath the table, for attaching leg irons. Bill slumped in one of the two chairs, chained in place, looking defiant yet weary. No one seemed to care where she went, and Voight was ignoring her entirely. She stood where she was, watching as he opened the door and walked in past her, his presence commanding the room even before he spoke.
Feeling forgotten, she let out a silent sigh of relief. But the reprieve was short-lived as a soft voice spoke into her ear. “Good afternoon. Again.” Almost jumping out of her skin, she whirled to find Moritz regarding her with that flat gaze. She hadn’t heard him approach; he had a habit of appearing and disappearing in complete silence, adding to his unnerving presence. His eyes turning to the tableau unfolding before them in the small interrogation chamber, he clasped his hands behind his back. “The Sturmbannführer thought you should be here.”
He had a strange accent she couldn’t place, dropping the h sound so the came out te. She didn’t know where he was from, or anything about him, only that allies and enemies both called him the Ghost. “I worked for Bill’s wife,” she explained, feeling self-conscious.
Moritz acknowledged this with a slight nod, but didn’t respond. Instead, they watched in silence as the interrogation began. Through the glass, she could see every detail: Voight’s calculated approach, Bill’s defiant posture, the way the harsh light cast stark shadows on their faces. She felt a pang of guilt, standing there as a silent witness to this unfolding drama, her emotions a tumultuous mix of fear, shame, and a twisted sense of loyalty.
Voight moved with the confidence of someone who knew he controlled the situation. His demeanor was open, almost friendly, but there was an underlying menace in every step he took. Pulling out a chair, his eyes locked on Bill’s, he sat down with a measured and deliberate motion. “Hello, Herr Smith. I’m delighted that, after all this time, we can finally meet.”
Bill tensed, his muscles coiling with restrained anger, but he didn’t respond.
“Surprising how cold these cells can get,” Voight continued. “Even in summer.” One leg crossed over the other, he exuded an air of nonchalance. “Would you like me to turn up the heat?”
Bill kept his gaze steady, refusing to be intimidated. “No.”
“Would you like something to drink, perhaps?” Voight’s offer was smooth, almost solicitous. He leaned forward slightly, as if genuinely concerned. “Water, coffee? Sparkling apple juice?”
Bill’s lips twitched in a brief, humorless smirk. “No, thanks.”
Voight raised an eyebrow in a small, almost imperceptible movement. “Something to eat? You must be hungry,” he persisted, his voice dripping with feigned concern. “You’ve been on the run for some time and eating what, tubes of what the Wehrmacht optimistically calls soup?” He offered a self-deprecating chuckle, erasing the past with a dismissive wave. “We Germans might be known for many things, but delicious rations are not one of them.”
“Maybe,” Bill allowed, his tone guarded, his posture rigid.
“When was the last time you had a real meal?” Voight’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze penetrating.
Bill crossed his arms over his chest, leaning further back in his chair. “You offering?” His voice held a contemptuous edge, as though Voight’s machinations bored him.
“Of course,” Voight responded smoothly, pretending he hadn’t noticed. “We can bring in whatever you want.”
Zelda felt a sick sense of recognition, watching Voight use the exact tactics on Bill that he’d once used on her. It was unsettling to see how easily he could switch between roles, from a lover to an interrogator, without missing a beat. The contrast between his calm, almost caring demeanor and the underlying threat in his words was jarring—and it worked. Winding up at lunch with him had been inevitable, with or without Alex’s stupidity; Voight had assured her, during her interrogation, that he’d get what he wanted. Making himself seem vulnerable, winning her compassion and ultimately her trust, the game might’ve taken longer than he’d wanted but he’d won just the same.
“Cigarette?” Voight stuck one in his mouth, holding out the case to Bill.
“No,” Bill replied flatly, his tone devoid of warmth.
Voight lit his own, taking a slow drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke that seemed to linger in the air between them. “Healthy,” he commented, his tone almost admiring.
“Wouldn’t want to die young,” Bill retorted, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
Tapping his fingers sharply on the table, Voight regarded Bill for a long moment. “You should know that this interview, Herr Smith, is merely a formality.” He was still serene, but Zelda was starting to sense the steel underlying the velvet. “Given the evidence we have, I mean.”
“Then what’s the point of this little interview?” Bill’s stare was challenging.
Voight examined the cigarette in his long, aristocratic fingers. “In 1933, just under half of all German men smoked. The habit was quite cheap back then, which helped. We make our own,” he added, without looking up. “Sturm Cigarettes provides the SS with operating funds, along with that all-important channel for political messaging. Hitler viewed smoking as decadent, called it the wrath of the Red Man against the White Man, vengeance for having stolen his land, but….”
Bill scoffed, a bitter sound that echoed in the small space. “You offering history lessons, now?”
“Just making conversation.” Voight exhaled another plume of smoke. “Perhaps there’s something else you’d like to share?” His eyes locked on Bill’s, belying his detached demeanor. “No?” He stubbed out his cigarette with a sharp gesture, against the tabletop. “Then we can discuss what I know, or believe I know, and you can tell me where I’m incorrect.”
But Bill refused to be drawn in. “I know what you did to Ted Hood.”
Voight pressed his lips together in the imitation of a smile. “So do we.”
“How did he die?” Bill tapped his foot on the concrete, a slight tic betraying his nerves. “Really, I mean.”
“Intracranial hemorrhage,” Voight replied, his tone matter of fact. “Hauptsturmführer Dassel hit him with a tire iron. Repeatedly. Hood almost killed him first, but that’s war, isn’t it?”
Moritz’s soft, polite voice broke the silence, drawing Zelda back to her immediate surroundings. “Smith almost caught me,” he admitted. “I was on the roof of the mausoleum and a tile broke loose.” The fact of his own near-death experience, however, didn’t seem to particularly upset him.
Zelda glanced at her companion, her mind churning with conflicted emotions. On one hand, she couldn’t deny the horror of Bill’s crimes; he was a child murderer, deserving of every punishment imaginable and more. She felt a sick sense of satisfaction at seeing him brought to justice, at being on the winning side for once…but also a deep, unsettling fear that this fleeting victory had come at too high a cost. She didn’t know who she was, anymore, and her confusion only deepened as she watched the scene unfold before her.
Meanwhile, the interrogation continued with an almost eerie calmness. Bill’s defiance was still evident, a spark of resistance against the overwhelming force arrayed against him. “You know,” he remarked, playing along with Voight’s informal tone, “your English really isn’t half bad.”
“Thank you,” Voight replied smoothly.
“Can’t make the j sound for shit, though,” Bill retorted.
“I am, alas, not a linguist.” Voight gave a slight shrug, as if the matter were of little consequence, then gestured at the floor. “We have your entire network downstairs, from the animals who helped you butcher eighteen people to the shop proprietor who gave you supposedly untraceable weapons in exchange for a few crates of canned ham. For him, the slaughter of innocents came down to greed but for you, it’s a matter of principle. Isn’t that right?”
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“No one helped me,” Bill insisted, his mouth firming. “I acted alone.”
“Only on the first three home invasions,” Voight corrected him. “After things nearly went so wrong with sweet, dear little Tommy you decided to take fewer risks.”
Bill’s voice rose slightly, the tension evident in his posture. “What do you want from me?”
Voight leaned in closer, studying Bill as though he were an especially large cockroach, his eyes cold and unblinking. “It should be obvious to you that someone in your group, for some time now, has been providing us with information.” His voice was low, sibilant. “Detailed information.”
Bill spat on the floor, his disdain palpable. “I know who.”
Voight’s curiosity seemed genuine, though Zelda knew better. “Do you? Her role in your organization was hardly significant—and that was before you kicked her out.” He played with his lighter, the flame dancing as he flicked it open and shut. “Is she spying on you, through a crystal ball?”
Bill threw up his hands in exasperation. “How does anyone know anything? I’ve given up asking.”
“The Gestapo is everywhere,” Voight stated, his eyes bright with malice.
“No, you’re not.” Bill sounded exhausted. “You just know how to turn people.”
Making his lighter disappear, Voight leaned an elbow on the table. “Most people want safety, Herr Smith, not heroics. They want to fall asleep at night, secure in the knowledge that no one is using a crowbar on their deadbolt, and if that means looking the other way sometimes…?”
Bill’s expression hardened, his fists clenching as he stared Voight down across the narrow space. “You’ve killed more children than I ever could, you racist scumbag. Or do the ones in ghettos not count? You’re a mass executioner hiding behind your paperwork,” he spat, his tone dripping with disgust. “Your name is on the orders, sending them into the Chinese Residential District and up to that hellhole in Williston.” He paused, his lip curling into a sneer. “At least the Butcher of Marblehead had the courage to kill half the town himself.”
Voight dropped the act as swiftly as another man might drop a cloak. “Do you deny that you killed Thomas Müller?” His voice was icy, each word sharp and precise.
Bill’s gaze dropped to the table, a flicker of something—pain, regret, perhaps—crossing his features before his mask of indifference settled back in place. “No,” he said flatly. “And his name wasn’t Müller, it was Brown. His real father was a longshoreman. We worked together, before some jerrycan crisped him into briquettes with a flamethrower.”
“How did you kill him?” Voight asked, his voice tight.
“I slit his throat.” Bill’s tone dripped with contempt. “He was screaming for his mother. He was such a little pussy, that kid. If he hadn’t jumped in front of your man, they’d all still be alive.”
Voight’s jaw tightened as he fought to maintain his composure. “I see. And the other nine children?”
Bill wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, a smirk playing at the corners. “You’re forgetting about the pregnant bitch.”
Voight took a deep breath. “She wanted to name the child after his father.”
“Yeah?” Bill’s smirk widened, his tone indifferent. “War is hell.”
“I want you to write this out,” Voight informed him.
Bill glanced at the window. Zelda knew he couldn’t see her, but she still felt a chill as his eyes crawled over the surface of the glass. What was he trying to achieve, with this nonchalance? No one could care as little as he pretended to. Was he trying to provoke Voight into killing him, right then and there? If so, he was dangerously close to succeeding. “What happens, after I confess?”
“You’re going to be found guilty in the People’s Court,” Voight explained. “And sentenced to death. Then, at noon on a date to be determined by the judge, you’ll be beheaded by guillotine.”
With a sharp intake of breath, Bill stiffened. “And my friends?”
Voight nodded.
Bill sighed ruefully, shaking his head. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. But why bother with a trial?” He sounded somewhere between bitter and honestly curious.
“Your fellow citizens need to know who they’re supporting,” Voight replied. His voice was almost soothing.
“The People’s Court is a kangaroo court, everyone knows that.” Stroking his unshaven chin, Bill acted like he was considering the issue. “You might know a thing or two, but you don’t know where Marta is. Otherwise, you’d be threatening me with a whole lot more than what you have been.” His eyes flashed with a spark of defiance. “But she’s gone, isn’t she?”
Instead of responding, Voight stood up and began to circle the table. His movements were slow and deliberate, the predator toying with his prey. “Is she no longer staying with friends?” His voice was sweet with false concern as he stared Bill down, each word dripping with condescension. “On Marlborough Street? In that charming little room, the one behind the false bookcase?”
The blood drained from Bill’s face, his tough façade crumbling.
“You don’t want to see her, after all?” Voight’s question was a soft taunt.
Bill stared straight ahead, mouth set in a grim line, refusing to give his tormentor the satisfaction of a response. Voight had a way of twisting the truth, not through outright lies but through careful omissions and half-truths, letting his victims draw their own damning conclusions. It was a subtle form of manipulation, one that left others doubting their own perceptions. Marta had gone to ground somewhere, evading even Moritz, but for all Bill knew she could be stashed somewhere below them in the dark. This jail was a labyrinthine nightmare, its damp air thick with the stench of fear and despair, and Bill knew what awaited its residents. Looking up at Voight, real fear flickered in his eyes. “Marta had nothing to do with this.”
“Marta helped you write The Free Man.” Voight’s tone was calm but firm, a teacher correcting a student.
“What I mean is, she doesn’t know about….” Bill swallowed. “The other things.”
Voight leaned down, his nose inches from Bill’s. “You mean to tell me that you’re not proud of what you’ve done? That you don’t want your sweet, innocent wife to think you’re a child killer?”
Bill’s resolve cracked further. “Marta knows that—
Quick as a striking snake, Voight grabbed Bill’s head and slammed him face-first into the table. Zelda flinched as blood sprayed everywhere. The table shook with the force of his attack, Bill thrashing involuntarily in his bonds, then Voight repeated the procedure. “How many times,” he asked, his voice a deadly hiss, “do you want me to do this to your wife?”
Blood pooled on the table. Bill coughed and choked, spraying ropey snot. His nose had been mashed into an unnatural shape, round and red like a tomato. “Here’s your confession,” he gasped, sounding like he had the world’s worst cold. “If I had the chance, I’d kill them all again.”
The most terrifying thing about Voight was how he masked his anger with such chilling, clinical precision. Each brutal action was executed with methodical detachment, a stark contrast to the raw emotion she felt roiling inside. She knew his fury was born of powerlessness, but his actions twisted that long-ago dream of justice into a thirst for vengeance. Leaning back against the table, he offered Bill a pristine white handkerchief, a gesture that seemed almost surreal in the aftermath of such violence. It was as if he was acknowledging the twisted path that’d brought them both here, transforming them from decent human beings into two more casualties of hate.
Bill took the handkerchief, his expression a mix of incredulity and grudging acceptance.
“Your wife might not know anything,” Voight allowed, still like he was discussing a picnic. “But I’d have to interview her to be sure.”
Bill’s voice was weaker, now, although he remained uncowed. “Drop dead.”
Voight pulled Bill upright by the collar, his feet straining against the manacles around his ankles. Bill gasped, spraying blood into Voight’s face. Voight drove a fist into his side, targeting the other man’s liver. Bill sagged. Exactly ten seconds later, Voight repeated the blow with ruthless exactitude. This time, Bill collapsed onto all fours, vomiting and quivering violently on the floor while Voight watched. “I have to take a short trip,” he announced, straightening his service tunic. “When I return, we’ll revisit the matter of your confession.”
Opening the door, he addressed Moritz. “Bring him back downstairs.”
Moritz nodded curtly. “Yes, Sturmbannführer.”
“And keep him alive.” Voight sounded annoyed. “I don’t want another spoon swallowing incident.”
Moritz disappeared into the cell.
Voight gestured, and Zelda followed him a second time, her mind a whirl of conflicting thoughts. He led her into a small bathroom, the stark fluorescent lighting on the institutional green of the tile making her even queasier. She watched, numb, as he washed Bill’s blood off his face, the water running red before swirling down the drain. His movements were particular, almost ritualistic, as if he were scrubbing away more than just the physical evidence.
Her stomach churned, a mix of revulsion and something she couldn’t quite name—a sick fascination, perhaps? She took slow, deep breaths as he moved on to washing his hands, meticulously scrubbing under each nail. He combed his hair with the same calm efficiency, returning himself to the perfect specimen he’d been before. This was what he’d done, came the sickening realization, after he’d beaten Alex. She remembered studying his nails what felt like so long ago, marveling at how clean they’d been. And when he turned from the mirror to face her, he wore the same unreadable expression. “Well, then.”
“What are you trying to prove?” she demanded, her voice trembling despite her desperate effort to sound composed.
“I want us to be perfectly clear on what I am,” he replied, his tone cool.
“No misunderstandings?” she clarified, acidity seeping into her voice.
He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming in the confined space. “Something like that.”
“You’re a cat,” she accused. “Bringing me a present and expecting me to be excited.”
His gaze darkened. “And you are,” he murmured softly, his breath warm on her skin.
She took a step back, pressing herself against the wall. “I’m not,” she insisted, with a thrill of alarm.
He leaned down, his lips almost brushing hers. “Part of you is like me. And you hate that about yourself.” His voice was a seductive whisper, each word dripping with wicked promise. “Don’t pretend that I’m something I’m not, Zelda, but don’t pretend that you are, either.” He trailed a fingertip down the side of her neck, the languorous touch somehow menacing as he reveled in her repulsion…and need. “If I bent you over the sink right now,” he breathed, “you’d want it.”
“Are you going to?” The words scratched her throat, barely audible, her heart thudding furiously against her ribcage.
“No.” He straightened, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “I have to go with Bittrich to New York.”