The Angel Maker (49 page)

But little by little this theory began to crumble. The medical examiners kept discovering new things. That the woman had been dead for several days by the time the fire had broken out. Later they determined that the children, too, had already been dead. They must have weighed less than nothing by then. But the people of the village refused to believe it. The bodies had been reduced to ashes. How could the authorities know how long the woman and the children had been dead? Perhaps she had had someone to help her. Further investigation was called for.

Later still, the villagers were told that the hammer found next to the cross had the doctor’s fingerprints on it, but that too was discounted by everyone; it must have been a trick. The real perpetrator had pressed the hammer into the doctor’s hand to get his fingerprints.

The patrons of the Café Terminus considered just once the possibility that the doctor might have nailed himself to the cross. But the discussion petered out quickly, since no one could imagine how that might be done, from a practical standpoint.

‘You’d have to have at least three arms,’ René Moresnet declared.

So it was impossible. Everyone could agree on that. Except one man. But he had not joined in the discussion. Florent Keuning had kept quiet and would continue to hold his peace - partly out of respect for the doctor, but mainly because he felt that he himself was in some way guilty. He ought to have realised, but it hadn’t raised any alarm bells in his mind at the time. He’d even chuckled to himself over it. And now the knowledge of it kept gnawing at him.

 

Sometimes what might seem impossible is merely very difficult.

Victor Hoppe had thought about it long and hard. That he would sacrifice himself was a given. That he would die on the cross was a given too. The evil had to be vanquished, but the harm the evil had done would first have to be set right. All sins had to be washed away. That was why he’d have to take his own life, and at the same time offer up his life. He would do it for mankind. And later, he would have to rise from the dead. He had seen to it that that would come to pass as well. He wouldn’t be able to accomplish it in three days, of course, but it would definitely come to pass. He had made sure of that.

But to die on the cross? How would he do that? He had thought about it, and suddenly had an inspiration. He had walked over to Florent Keuning’s house.

‘A hammer and three nails,’ he had said to the handyman. ‘I need a sturdy hammer and three long nails.’

‘Do you have something heavy to hang?’ Florent had asked. ‘If you like, I can come and help you, you know.’

‘Thanks, but I can manage by myself.’

The handyman had given him what he needed, and Victor had thanked him and told him that his sins would soon be forgiven.

He knew that the entire village would be going to Calvary Hill that afternoon. He had taken it as a sign. The reason they were going there was to see him, so he must get there on time. But then Rex Cremer had arrived. Cremer was out to betray him. That too was a sign. What he, Victor Hoppe, was about to do, was the right thing to do. It was good.

As soon as Cremer had gone, Victor set out. It took him three-quarters of an hour to reach Calvary Hill on foot. The hammer weighed heavy in his hand. He stumbled and fell a few times, but always managed to get back on his feet.

The entrance to Calvary Hill was shut but not locked. He followed the path meandering past the eleven grottos of the Stations of the Cross until he reached the twelfth station.

Jesus was no longer up there! He saw that it was so, and again, again, he took it as a sign. The cross was waiting for him. For him alone.

He scaled the hill, taking the same route as the one he had taken as a boy, so many years ago. A young child, but already predestined, he now realised.

Again he stepped into the clearing from the right, but this time there were no spectators. Not yet. He took off his clothes, down to his underpants. He pried the wound in his side open again with his fingers. It began to bleed. That was good.

Then he stepped up to the cross. He saw that if he stood on tiptoe, his arms just reached the crossbeam. The cross was just the right size for him. He picked up the hammer and nails. For a moment he wondered if the nails would hold his weight. But in Jesus’s case they had held, so then he stopped worrying.

He was left-handed. That was why he first hammered one of the nails into the left crossbeam, where his left hand would go. He heard snatches of music in the distance.

Then he crouched down, placing his left hand on the ground. He grasped the hammer in his right. Picking up a second nail, he pounded it through his left hand. It was easy. It hurt, but that was all part of the deal. He had to bear it stoically. He beat the nail all the way through and then picked up his hand. He yanked the nail out of his hand, which now had a hole right through it. He peered through the hole then wrapped a bandage round it.

Then he leaned back against the cross, his feet still on the ground. Standing on tiptoe, he crossed his feet, leaned forward and, using his left hand, hammered another nail through both his feet. The pain was excruciating, both in his hand and in his feet. But still he persevered. He had a mission.

Straightening up again, he stretched out his right arm until his right hand was at the far end of the crossbeam. Then he pounded a nail into it with his other hand. He hammered until the nail was anchored deep in the wood of the crossbeam. The pain was already growing less acute.

With a last effort he tossed the hammer into the pines on the hill. Next he tore the bandage off his left hand with his teeth, again peered through the hole in his hand, and then hooked it over the nail he had hammered into the cross earlier. The nail slipped easily through the hole.

Now he was hanging on the cross.

He waited patiently as the music came closer.

He knew that if he leaned forward and lifted his feet off the ground at the same time, his legs would snap and his lungs collapse. He had considered this. He had also considered what his last words should be. But he hadn’t had to think about it very long. John, chapter 19, verse 30. There it was written.

And then he saw the procession come forth, with Father Kaisergruber in the vanguard. Even he would now have to believe in Victor’s goodness. He was quite confident of it as he stared at the priest, and the priest stared back at him.

12

‘Right here, at the three borders. That’s where the last victim died. A certain Rex Cremer. A German.’ Jacques Meekers tapped his index finger on the map of Wolfheim and its environs. ‘Actually, the accident itself had already happened before the doctor’s death, but the victim didn’t die until later that night, in hospital, in Aachen. And of course we didn’t hear about it until afterwards. Because what had happened here and at La Chapelle eclipsed everything else, naturally. Anyway, the chap must have been driving much too fast. There were several witnesses who saw it happen. He was gunning it, at top speed, from this side of the Vaalserberg up to the border, just as a coach came barrelling down from Vaals. The driver honked his horn, and it must have given this fellow, the German, such a turn that he spun the wheel in the opposite direction. He just managed to avoid the coach, but he couldn’t steer clear of the hole. You know, the huge excavation, the foundations for the new tower. The poor man crashed right through the fence and plunged down into the pit. One of the cement pillars went—’

‘That’s enough, Jacques. You’ve told that story a hundred times. And that accident had nothing to do with the other events, surely? It was just a coincidence.’

‘And look here,’ Jacques Meekers went on, ignoring the interruption; ‘if you draw a line, see, from here, the doctor’s house, where the walnut tree used to stand, to the three borders, you can see how all the disasters seem to branch out from that spot, just like the roots of a tree.’

 

On Saturday, 19 May 1990, the new Boudewijn Tower at the three-border junction was officially inaugurated. Among the numerous attendees were Lothar and Vera Weber. They had a carrycot with them for their baby, who was four months old that day. It was a boy. They had named him Isaac.

They had been given the good news two days earlier. The hospital tests had shown that young Isaac’s hearing was normal. It came as a great relief, especially after the nasty shock they’d had at his birth.

It was the first time they had shown their son in public. There was no reason not to any more, now that the surgery was over and done with. They’d done a beautiful job, really. Perfect. They’d used the very latest techniques. Later you’d barely be able to see a thing, just a discreet scar. Nothing like the way it had looked at first.

Many of the villagers came over to admire the baby that afternoon, and all discreetly took in the deformity. No one said anything about it, however. Just as no one had mentioned it in the past four months. Yet everyone knew exactly when and where it had happened. That day on Calvary Hill, when Vera had had such a terrible fright. That was when it had happened. For she must already have been expecting then.