The old man nodded. "Would you say the brightest star is right above you?"

"Yes. It seems to be right above the torch."

"Very good. Now go lie down next to each of the remaining torches and repeat everything we just did. Always tell me whether the brightest star shines directly above the torch."

Bastian followed the old man's orders, and indeed it seemed again that one star out of the sparkling bounty shone particularly brightly and always right above the torch. In the end he wasn't sure whether what he saw was real or just an optical illusion, because his eyes had to get past the torches' corona of light. In any case, a large, bright star was shining above each torch, and Bastian could now clearly discern a trapezoid with four bright stars as corner points, pinning it against the indigo sky.

"This is my magical quadrangle!" the old man said with a husky voice and turned his blind eyes to Bastian. "Here you have the secret of orientation. Bastian Muhlenberg, never again will you get lost at night, no matter if you're on firm ground or at sea. This quadrangle is always visible during the full moon, and its measurements always correspond to the distances between the torches. When you use these points for orientation, you will always find your way back."

"Interesting," Bastian said without much conviction. He still didn't quite understand what the old man was getting at.

"The walls around Zons," said the old man, "how are they built? Think hard!"

That's when Bastian understood. The city walls in Zons also formed a right-angled trapezoid. The scales fell from his eyes.

"You mean the walls around Zons are built in the same proportion, six to seven to eight to nine?"

"Exactly," the old psychic whispered. "I showed it to Dietrich a very long time ago. He was obsessed with it, especially after he'd found out that his mother was originally from Zons. He often said he wanted to stand high up on one of the towers on the night of a full moon and look up at the brightest star. He thought he'd somehow sense his mother. She died in childbirth, you know, leaving him alone with his brutal father. I answered the boy that nothing is impossible under a full moon when you are sure to bring enough sacrifices."

"You are saying a girl from Zons could be considered such a sacrifice?" Bastian's voice trembled.

"I always tried to bring Dietrich back onto the right track. But it was too late. I'm afraid you're right, Bastian. I believe he killed the girl and then climbed up one of the towers. I truly hope he got what he was longing for, because then you can be certain that he has moved on and won't cause any more harm in your small town."

"But if that's the case, he would have returned home and you would have seen him, don't you think?"

"I don't know," the old man replied quietly. "I really hope you're wrong, Bastian, and that Dietrich has moved on. But I can't say for sure. Dietrich has a very complicated mind."

With these words, the old man slowly stood and motioned Bastian to do the same. By now it was past midnight, and their muscles were stiff from lying so long in the snowy meadow. It took a long time to lead the old man, stiffened from cold, back to the main house. All Bastian wanted was to sleep. He walked directly to his room, where he immediately fell into a profound slumber.

Early the following day, Bastian got ready for the long journey back to Zons. The trip would take half a day. Politely he bid farewell to the old psychic, thanking him for everything the man had shared with him. Bastian still didn't know how, exactly, the magical trapezoid would be of use to him. But in the hopes that Dietrich h.e.l.lenbroich would show up to fulfill his crazy delusion, Bastian would add more guards on each of the four towers, especially on full-moon nights. He couldn't imagine that the killer would be so easily trapped-but it was worth a try. Even if h.e.l.lenbroich expected Bastian to visit his farm and encounter the old psychic caretaker, would he expect the old man, whom he had taken into his confidence, to share the secret about the star trapezoid with Bastian? But he had shared it, so Bastian decided that he would acquire a detailed map of the city of Zons and, as early as the following night, he would climb each of the towers of Zons and look up into the starry sky.

Bastian again recalled the b.l.o.o.d.y carvings in Elisabeth's scalp: a 1, a 6, and the letter K. These were exactly the same three symbols the killer had carved into the wooden door in the Juddeturm. While the old clairvoyant had been able to explain how the numbers 6, 7, 8, and 9 were connected, nothing explained how the letter K fit into all this. Nor, for that matter, the number 1. No, he still couldn't wrap his head around this puzzle, but he mulled it over and over in his mind as he rode straight back to Zons.

She lifted her eyes to the full moon above her, usually a beautiful sight, lush yellow with small dark spots that formed a face if you looked long enough. But Gertrud couldn't enjoy the moon's beauty on this bright, clear winter's night.

She was lashed to the pier, and the Rhine's frigid water washed across her body up to her throat in short, recurring intervals. With every swooshing wave, the river seemed to swallow another little piece of her body. A few times the waves had been even stronger and she had choked on mouthfuls of icy water because she couldn't lift her head.

The moment he'd attacked her, she had known it had to be Dietrich h.e.l.lenbroich, the man who had raped and murdered Elisabeth Kreuzer a month ago and caused such a furor in Zons. Everyone, including herself, had believed that he had left Zons long ago and disappeared for good. Besides, she lived directly next to the Muhlenturm and just a few meters away from a large double gate with a drawbridge where the City Guard kept watch around the clock. This was the only point of entry into Zons from the west. When word of Elisabeth's murder had first come out, she took to locking her door with a huge bolt. But she had grown tired of lifting that heavy thing all the time. Bit by bit, Elisabeth's murder faded from her memory and a sense of safety had covered her instinctive fears like a veil. A few weeks after the murder, she'd gradually begun to forget about the safety measures and had left the door to her house open like she used to do.

In broad daylight he sneaked into her house and ambushed her as she was entering the pantry to choose the ingredients for lunch. He chained her hands and shoved a piece of rough cloth so deep into her throat that she thought-hoped-it would choke her before he laid another hand on her body.

He noticed that she was about to suffocate, however, and loosened the gag just enough for her to breathe. Still in the pantry, he shaved off her hair. By then she was certain that she was about to meet the same fate as Elisabeth. Once she had lost all her marvelous blonde curls, he began to gradually pour liters of red wine into her mouth. In the beginning she had to throw up, but each time he hit her brutally and pinched her nostrils together so she had to swallow more. Eventually she lost consciousness, coming to only when she was lying in the cold water of the Rhine.

Another wave smacked its way up to her lips. Desperate, she tried to lift her head again, when suddenly the madman pulled her out of the water. A terrible foreboding came over her. She couldn't move, let alone defend herself. She noticed gratefully that her body was so frozen she hardly felt anything when he brutally penetrated her and reached his o.r.g.a.s.m, making disgusting, groaning sounds. The only thing she felt were his hands strangling her as he raped her. Her first reaction was panic, but then she realized that her suffering would be over any second-and so, in the last moments of Gertrud's life, she tried to seek comfort in the fact that very soon, G.o.d would welcome her in paradise.

XI.

Present

Emily opened her tired eyes to see a shaft of moonlight shining into her room. Out the window the moon seemed almost full. She looked at her watch.

"d.a.m.n," she scolded herself. Once again she'd let herself take a small nap, but it had become very late.

It was past midnight. Her deadline was in two days, and she still hadn't finished the first part of her feature series for the Rheinische Post. How could she make it? She had hardly managed to work the previous week, when she'd been ill with a terrible flu. Sweating and feverish, she had spent the days in her bedroom sleeping and downing antibiotics. Her swollen sinuses made her head feel enormous and heavy; it had been too hard to think, let alone write.

Today was the first day she felt better. With Christmas only a few days away, the need to finish the article took on more urgency. The editor had advised her that copyediting would take at least a day, so there was no room for further delays. Anna had been very sweet, coming over in the evenings to feed her chicken soup and make her endless cups of hot tea. She had also thoroughly organized Emily's research material. Now the doc.u.ments were spread in a circle around the sofa in Emily's living room.

Emily had almost finished describing the first murder. After a few improvements here or there, Anna, too, had been impressed. But the problem was reconstructing the solution to the fatal puzzle. Emily simply didn't comprehend how to link the numbers and letters that Bastian Muhlenberg, the investigator from the City Guard, had written in his notebook, along with other details of the case. To fully understand the riddle, she needed a historic map of Zons, but where could she find such a thing at this hour of the night?

She Googled "Zons" and "historic map" but didn't find what she needed among the results. Another glance at her watch, and she realized it was already one o'clock in the morning. d.a.m.n, she'd have to go see that weird, limping guy in the county archive first thing tomorrow. Maybe Anna would have time to come with her, she thought, before fatigue overwhelmed her and she fell into a deep sleep.

It was eight o'clock in the morning. Anna's cell phone was ringing, but she was in a meeting and couldn't pick up.

"Aaargh," Emily muttered and hung up. "Seems I'll have to go by myself."

In half an hour she was in the county archive, breathing in the damp, fetid smell she remembered from her last visit. It wasn't long before the creepy archivist came limping toward her, a triumphant smile on his face.

"Young lady," he said, leaning in toward her and staring at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, "may I be of further a.s.sistance concerning the killer and his puzzle?"

"Yes. I need a historic city map in order to put the pieces together." Emily backed off a step to avoid the archivist's bad breath. It was almost unbearable, but she desperately needed that map.

"Well, certainly. Why don't you come with me and I'll make you a copy? But before that, let me show you the original city map. The copies tend to be of poor quality and you might not be able to recognize everything on them."

"Can't I just wait here, up front?" Emily asked hesitantly.

"My dear, don't you worry. I won't leave you alone in the dark archives. I will be at your side at all times; you can count on that!"

He smirked, and she could see the gap where his tooth had been. He offered her his arm, and Emily followed him uneasily.

I hope this isn't a mistake, she thought and, stiffening up, tried to maintain as wide a distance as possible between herself and the archivist.

He led her into one of the rear rooms. The ceiling was low, but the room itself was far larger than she would have guessed. Huge, old, and dusty shelves were standing in ten neatly organized rows to her left and right. Emily tried to see the back of the room, but it was too far away. Here, the air seemed not only stuffy but actually moldy. She didn't even want to imagine how many dead mice or spiders were decaying under the shelves or, even worse, between all the files, records, doc.u.ments, and books that were stacked up on them. She could see the old archivist's footsteps in the layer of dust that covered the floor: one clear footprint on the right, and a slurred track from the limping leg on the left.

"Wait here one second," he told her. Emily sat down in a small chair at the end of one of the long rows.

The limping archivist disappeared between the shelves and reemerged a few moments later clutching a huge roll of paper.

"Here it is! The historic city map of Zons from the fifteenth century."

He licked his lips with the tip of his tongue, carefully unfolded the map, and spread it out on the table in front of Emily.

"Well then, let's take a look, shall we?" He leaned forward, inching closer to Emily who, in turn, leaned backward as subtly as possible.

"Here we have the old city wall. Some claim it was rectangular, but that's wrong."

Emily scanned the map. While the walls ran straight, each of the four sides had a different length. The shortest wall was along the southern end of the city. The mill was located on the left side, and Burg Friedestrom sat on the right. The eastern wall was the longest segment of the city fortification, followed by the western and northern sides, the second- and third-longest respectively.

Back then, four large gates offered access to the city. The only one that was still intact was the Zollturm. The Feldtor in the west, the Sudtor, and the eastern gate that had been part of Burg Friedestrom didn't exist anymore. In the fifteenth century, those four gates were the only entrances to the city. Zons must have been quite a safe city, Emily reasoned, at least according to the standards of the time.

The old archivist explained to her that the different lengths of the city wall were built in a proportion of six to seven to eight to nine, giving the whole the shape not of a rectangle but, geometrically speaking, of a trapezoid. A right-angled trapezoid, to be precise.

"What does the inverted balance symbol stand for?" Emily asked the archivist. "See, here, at the lower end of the map?"

He frowned and tugged on his gla.s.ses. "The inverted balance stands for an inversion." With these words, he turned the map upside down. "See? Now north is south."

"Yes," Emily replied. "But what's the meaning of it?"

"It is presumed that the master builder of Zons laid out the city based on Corvus, the constellation of the Raven. It appeared among the original constellations mentioned on Ptolemy's list. According to Greek mythology, the raven is linked to Apollo's cup. Look, here." The old man unfolded another map, this one showing the constellations.

Running his fingers over the map, he explained, "In the south, the constellation of the Raven is bounded by Hydra, in the east by the Crater, and in the west by Virgo. Due to the conditions set by the course of the Rhine, they couldn't create an exact copy of the Raven when erecting the walls. They had to turn the whole thing by 180 degrees, bringing what's north to the south. That's what the inverted balance at the bottom of the map indicates."

"You really know a lot about it," Emily said, and the queer old man beamed with pride. He crouched even closer toward Emily and continued his lecture.

"According to Greek mythology, Apollo put a cup in the raven's beak and sent him to a fountain so that he could gather water for an offering to Zeus, Apollo's father. The raven, however, didn't return on time because on the way he perched on a fig tree and ate his fill of the juicy figs. In order to avoid punishment, the sly raven captured a water snake once he arrived at the fountain and brought the snake and the full cup back to Apollo. He lied to Apollo, telling him that the snake had barred the way to the fountain, causing his delay. Apollo, however, saw through the lie and banished the raven, the cup, and the water snake from the earth, flinging them into the firmament where they remain fixed forever. Why he would place them next to Virgo is not clear. Explanations abound."

Emily was visibly impressed by the archivist's knowledge. Still beaming with pride, the old man rolled the maps together again, turned around, and walked back into the aisle from which he had retrieved them. Suddenly Emily felt a cold draft, and then, with a loud bang, the door of the room slammed shut. Startled, she looked over her shoulder, but she couldn't see anything-until she suddenly felt the archivist's damp breath on her neck. She twisted around in panic. His wrinkled, bug-like face was just inches away from her own.

"Don't worry, young lady. New visitors have arrived. When this happens, that door tends to slam shut." As he whispered, she could feel drops of his spittle on her ear.

Swiftly, she jumped from her chair and walked to the door. The old man laughed, amused, and continued to ogle her.

"Your copies, your copies!" He held two sheets out to her. Feeling dizzy, Emily stepped forward and stretched out her right hand. He handed her the papers, but before she could move, he had already covered her hand with his. Emily flinched, but her obvious distaste didn't deter the archivist, who smirked lasciviously as she moved toward the door.

"You're welcome to come by any time, should you have further questions."

"Thank you, but I guess I'm fine for now," Emily replied and yanked at the doork.n.o.b. Waves of relief washed through her when the door swung open easily. It took only a few steps to reach the exit, and, once in her car, she took a deep breath before she started the engine. She was relieved to have made it out of the bizarre and moldy county archive safe and sound.

Now, with the new material, she should be able to finish her article by tonight. She was confident that over a nice cup of tea in her living room, with her maps and research material spread around her, she would find the solution to the puzzle quite easily.

Oliver Bergmann's phone rang.

Oh no, not again, he thought, annoyed.

It was probably the two hundredth caller over the past two months, claiming to have seen a Ford at or near the spot where they found the Body in the Woods, and Oliver was getting really tired of this. In actuality, pursuing leads could be very tedious and dull-not the excitement he'd imagined when starting his new post as detective.

He must have watched too many CSI and Law & Order episodes on television, where something exciting happened every minute and called for heroic action. Instead, he sat at a desk in an office and answered a never-ending stream of boring phone calls, took notes regarding yet another sighting of yet another Ford for which he subsequently would have to vet the license plate. After that, he'd have to trudge from one auto shop to the next, inquire if and when the respective car had last been repaired, and, well . . . cross off the lead. So far, their search had not produced even the slightest hit.

If this continued, he'd soon become a Ford automotive expert. Such was the lot of the youngest team member. His partner Klaus got to question the witnesses-though so far, equally without any exciting results. But that didn't prevent Oliver from imagining Klaus's task as far more interesting, definitely more rewarding than having to deal with that d.a.m.ned getaway car!

Despite intensive police activity, they had not been able to identify the late twenties Body in the Woods. In the beginning they had hoped for a swift ID, given the fact that his features perfectly matched a missing-persons report that had been issued eight weeks earlier. Yet that promising hot trail had gone up in smoke yesterday when the missing young man had finally materialized in a drunk cell in Bochum, with a BAC of .18 percent but alive. Now they were groping in the dark again, with only two somewhat trustworthy witnesses providing info concerning the getaway car. And whether those leads would prove substantial remained to be seen.

Oliver was bored and frustrated at the same time, and it didn't help that his boss, cranky since the "missing person" had turned up in the drunk tank, appeared hourly at Oliver's desk, inquiring about the status of the investigation.

Oliver wondered how easy it was to disappear in Germany. There was not one single missing-persons report that matched the unknown dead man, not even in the slightest. Oliver shook his head in desperation; something told him they were not tackling this the right way.

XII.

Five Hundred Years Ago

Bastian couldn't believe it. He had been gone for less than two days inspecting h.e.l.lenbroich's farm in Cologne when, during the one night of his absence, a second murder had taken place. He felt a sense of foreboding when he approached the city gate and half the City Guard's staff ran frantically toward him.

This time the victim was young Gertrud Minkenberg, and it was clear h.e.l.lenbroich had his mind set on killing young girls during the full moon. Bastian blamed himself terribly for his late return. Had he traveled to Cologne only a week earlier, he might have been able to prevent the murder. And had he not been gone at all, he would have at least made sure the guards on duty remained on high alert. Yet a two-day absence had been enough for them to relax their vigilance. After all, during the recent weeks nothing had happened, and so they justified their negligence to him. In a rage he cut the guards' extra rations of mead.

Bastian sought solace with the priest, Father Johannes, who immediately tried to calm him by setting a goblet of strong, hot red wine in front of him. As the alcohol's soothing effect set in, Bastian told the clergyman about his excursion to Cologne and his strange encounter with the old psychic. The priest listened carefully and, after a while, unfolded a map of Zons.

"Well then, let's take a look, my dear Bastian," the priest said and asked Bastian to point out the magical trapezoid.

"Corvus videt virgo," the priest whispered. "You understand the meaning of these words, Bastian?"

"Of course," Bastian answered. "You yourself taught me Latin. It means: The raven sees the virgin."

The old priest laughed. "Well, indeed, but don't draw your conclusions too hastily. Look behind the meaning of the words. Tell me, what do the raven and the virgin symbolize?"

Bastian thought hard. He was familiar with ravens, and of course he knew what a virgin was, but he couldn't come up with a link between the two.

He put his head in his hands and moaned, "I'm no good at solving riddles anymore! Those murders are draining every little bit of my energy."

"Don't give up too easily, my son. You can't lose your mind's power so fast-though admittedly, this marvelous red wine is rather strong." Bastian's old teacher grabbed another map and spread it out in front of them. "Look here. Now can you tell me the meaning of those words?" He gave Bastian an encouraging wink.

Bastian took a quick gulp from his goblet and leaned forward. "Oh, how could I not notice earlier? We are dealing with two constellations!" He smacked his forehead and shook his head balefully at the priest. "Seems you're always a few steps ahead of me!"

The priest patted his shoulder with affection.

"Without you," Bastian exclaimed, "I would still be brooding about the trapezoid-shaped layout of our city!"