Vanished from budapest, p.1
Vanished From Budapest, page 1
Vanished From Budapest
D.J. Maughan
Hulyeseg Publishing
Copyright © 2022 by D.J. Maughan
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
For you, Dad. Your love of reading inspired me. I miss you.
Prologue
My teeth feel like they might rattle out of my mouth. Am I cold, or is someone shaking me? Something’s not right. A fog is floating in my head. Am I awake? My eyes are open, but I see nothing but blackness. As I stare into the darkness, remembrance comes to me. Last night, as my husband sat on the bed next to me, he wore a mask. His face was blank, completely void of emotion as I lied to him. Never in our marriage has he ever raised a hand to me. That’s why I didn’t flinch as he doubled his fist and punched me full in the face.
The fog in my head begins to clear. My arms are throbbing. I try in vain to move them. Panic rises in my chest as I lie on my side, my face resting against something cold and hard. The smell of stale dirt fills my nostrils. The floor shifts and moves. I’m in a vehicle.
Almost on cue, the bumping slows then stops. I hold my breath, listening intently to the silence. Through gritted teeth, I turn from my side onto my back. The movement awakens an eruption of pain in my wrist. I press my hips to the floor, limiting the pressure on my wrist.
Listening closely, I hear footsteps then scraping metal as light bursts through the swinging door. I force my eyes closed, avoiding the light and fearing whoever may come through the door.
“Get up.”
The voice is unfamiliar. I’m surprised. I expected to hear my husband, not this nasally, coarse male. I push my eyelids open, blinking against the burning light.
My mouth is stuffed, gagged. My eyes are adjusting to the light, focusing on the stranger standing in front of me. He reaches out, and I wince as he grips my foot, pulling me to him. He drags my body along the floor of the dirty box truck. I press against the gag, trying to scream, but my cry is swallowed. He roughly grabs me by the shoulders, pulling me up into a sitting position. My head spins and my arms throb. My stomach turns and I worry I may vomit into my gag.
“Do you need to pee?” he asks me.
I can’t respond and only nod my head. The man stares at me, warning me with his eyes. Finally, he bends over and unties the rope around my ankles.
The stench of tobacco and body odor waft over me.
“I’m going to allow you out of this truck so you can pee. But I warn you, no funny business. I’ll be watching you the whole time. And if you try to run,” he holds up a shiny pistol, “you better be faster than a bullet. I don’t miss. Understand me?”
Without thinking, I bend one knee and bring it up and forward. My aim is true as I connect my knee to the man’s balls. Immediately, he drops to the ground. I bend the other knee extending my foot and connecting with his face. Blood springs from his nose.
I leap down from the truck and I take off running. The sun is blinding. Where am I?
I momentarily stop, looking around wildly. In front of me stands a forest. Behind me, a dirt road, and Andras’s delivery truck. I head toward the forest. An explosion sounds behind me, and I feel the whiz of a bullet before it slams into the bark of the tree in front of me.
I stop, turning to look back.
“The next one will be in your head,” the gunman says, walking toward me.
Chapter one
Peter
Budapest – October 2000
Peter is late. A part of him hopes Stephen—the young man he is meant to meet—won’t show and it won’t matter. Stephen claimed his 22-year-old girlfriend had disappeared, and he seemed to think Peter, a private investigator, was the only man to help him. Looking out the window, he becomes increasingly aware of the dread growing in the pit of his stomach. Cases like these are precisely why he left the New York City Police and returned home to Budapest. Images of an NYC alleyway flash in his head.
The streetcar stops and Peter rushes to exit. In his haste, he catches his foot on one of the steps. His reflexes aren’t what they used to be, but as he falls, he is able to slow his descent by grasping the railing. Unfortunately, his hand slips and he bounces off the bottom step, rolling onto the platform in front of several waiting passengers. As he lies on the concrete, he closes his eyes, imagining he were a magician making his audience disappear.
“Are you okay?” a young man asks as he leans down to extend his hand.
Peter opens his eyes and grasps it. “Yes, I’m fine thank you.” As he stands, he realizes his hat has fallen off.
The youth leans down, picking it up, and extends it to him. “Maybe you should take one step at a time, Pops.”
“Thank you. At least I’m not behind the wheel of a car, right?” Before the younger man can reply, Peter crosses the street and begins striding down the sidewalk.
He’s grateful for the young man’s help but senses the not too subtle jab at his age. At 54, Peter isn’t necessarily old, but he isn’t young either. Lately, he has begun to feel out of touch with the ever-increasing impact technology was having on society. Three months of no cases will do that to you. Several short months ago people had been afraid the world would stop, computers would no longer work, it would be the end of the world simply because the year flipped from 1999 to 2000. Now, the internet was becoming bigger and bigger. The World Wide Web was the way to interact, to market, even to investigate. Peter never used a computer and felt intimidated by them. He had contemplated changing careers. But to what? Investigation was all he knew. He hated the prospect of reinventing himself. Maybe coming back to Budapest was a mistake? No, he shook his head. He was being dramatic. In the last week, he had been called three times and was close to solving one of the cases. He was now headed to a new client meeting. Things would be okay.
As Peter enters the near-deserted café, he immediately recognizes Stephen. There are five or six small tables and only a few people scattered among them. Only one with a young man in his early twenties dressed like an American—Nikes and Levi Strauss jeans. Hungary had been behind the Soviet Iron Curtain as recently as nine years ago, and although advances were being made, they were far behind Western Europe and America in commerce. Clothing, hairstyle, health, and dental care were some of the most obvious signs. Westerners just looked different. Peter walks over and sits down in front of him without speaking. This is part of his method. Upon meeting new people, he forces them to speak first. It gives him insight into their personality. Stephen looks at him anxiously, seeming unsteady. Peter sits waiting.
“Peter?” the young man asks.
Peter leans back and nods as he appraises the young man. Stephen seems ordinary, average in height with a lean build. His hair is light brown with eyes that match. His face is symmetrical with well-defined features. He guesses women might find him handsome if not for his timidness. He melts under Peter’s gaze, squirming in his chair.
Peter decides to take pity on him. “So, Tom told you to call me, huh?” Peter keeps his face impassive. As a detective in New York, he developed a reputation. The other cops called him the “truth seer” and “Sauron,” a nod to the Dark Lord in The Lord of the Rings, “the all-seeing eye.”
“Yep,” Stephen replies.
“How long has it been since you saw your girlfriend?”
“Five days.”
“What do you think happened to her?” Peter likes asking pointed questions. He finds it keeps the potential client or witness off balance. They begin to respond emotionally which leads to more candor. Uncomfortable people divulge information they intend to keep secret.
Stephen takes his hands off the table and wipes them on his jeans. “I don’t know. She’s not coming to class anymore.”
“Maybe she’s sick?”
Stephen shakes his head and sits forward in his chair. “No, something happened to her.”
“What happened to her?”
Stephen shrugs. “She either went back home to England or something bad happened.”
Peter taps his fingers on the table and stares back at him. “You think something bad happened to her?”
“Yep.”
Peter crosses his arms over his chest. “Like what?”
Stephen shifts in his chair again. “I think someone might have taken her.”
“Taken her where? Who?”
“I don’t know. I guess that’s why I’m contacting you. I’m worried about her.”
“Why did you contact me? Why not the police?”
“I don’t speak much Hungarian. I mean, my family is Hungarian, but I grew up in Cleveland, Ohio. I’m only here for school. I wouldn’t know who to contact.”
Peter puts his right index finger to his chin. Although he’s calm on the outside, he’s fighting the growing sense of uneasiness on the inside. Cases involving violence toward women are precisely why he left the NYC Police and returned home to Budapest. “Tell me everything you can about her. Start from the beginning. Don’t worry about repeating things.”
“Where do I start?”
Peter shrugs. “How about her name?”
“Her name was Samantha.”
“What do you mean was?”
Stephen takes a short breath and corrects himself. “I mean her name is Samantha.”
“Samantha what?”
Stephen hesitates. “I actually don’t know her last name.”
Stephen shifts in his chair. “I only met her a couple weeks ago. It never came up. I don’t know if she’s actually my girlfriend.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know, we never talked about it.”
Peter rubs the beard on his chin. “How did you meet?”
Again, the kid shifts around in his chair. “We met in school. We are both students at the International Business School in Northern Buda.”
Peter had never been to the school but had heard about it. “Where is she from in England?”
“Preston.”
“And you are from Cleveland, Ohio?”
“Yeah.”
Peter leans back again and stares at Stephen. He needs the money this case would bring, but he dreads the result. Relying on his many years of interrogation experience he keeps his tone low and calm. “What does Samantha look like?”
“She’s really pretty.”
Peter shakes his head. This again? How many times had he told clients or witnesses that he needs detail? A detective without detail is like a painter without paint.
He leans forward and speaks forcefully to Stephen. “Look, young man, I need you to be as detailed as possible; the more detail you give me, the better. She’s really pretty doesn’t work. I need to know why she’s pretty. I need to know her height, the type of clothing she wears, the way she wears her hair, makeup, etc. The more detail, the better chance I have of finding her. Understand me?”
Stephen swallows hard but agrees.
“I want you to tell me how you met her. Give me all the details. It isn’t up to you to determine what is and isn’t important. I need everything.”
Stephen raises his hands, extending his palms to Peter. “Okay…okay.” He takes a deep breath. “As I got off the plane here in Budapest, I nearly turned around and got back on, begging for them to take me home. I’ve only been to Budapest once in my life. I was thirteen, and I came with my grandma, who is Hungarian. My mom had just died; Grandma brought me in an attempt to distract me. Returning as an adult brought a lot of those memories flooding back. I arrived on a Friday and school was due to start on Monday. I spent the weekend attempting to acclimate to a completely foreign language and environment. I broke my toilet the first time I used it, lit my hair on fire from the water heater below the shower, and was terrified when leaving the apartment fearing I was going to be accosted by an elderly woman looking like Mrs. Doubtfire.”
Peter smirks but says nothing. A cute woman around Stephen’s age is sitting at the table across from them and keeps looking in Stephen’s direction.
“By the time Monday came along, I was beginning to wonder what else could go wrong,” Stephen continues. “I was sure I would get lost and never make it to school. I knew the streetcar ride would be about twenty minutes. I was anxious as I got on, I had never ridden public transportation and I worried someone would speak to me and I wouldn’t know what to say back. Eventually, I heard my stop announced and got off the streetcar. The school was across the street. As I walked up the steps, I felt like a five-year-old going to their first day of kindergarten. I was certainly excited but also very nervous. This was my fifth school.”
“What do you mean, your fifth school?” Peter asks.
“I mean including grade school, middle school, high school, and college.”
“Oh…okay. Get to the point. How did you meet her?”
Stephen hesitates. “The school was vastly different from Ohio State or high school; there weren’t a thousand kids walking around. I barely saw anyone. It looked more like an office building. To my right, I saw a room which looked like a main office. I walked over and opened the door and was greeted by a gorgeous blonde woman in her early twenties. Immediately, I felt my face flush and my hands sweat. I’ve never been good with beautiful women.”
Finally. The young woman sitting in the café across from them, picks up her purse, and walks past them. As she does, she makes eye contact with Stephen and smiles. He turns away, looking back at Peter, and continues with his story.
“The striking blonde smiled at me and said, ‘Hello, are you a student?’ I was relieved to hear English.
“‘I am. My name is Stephen Nagy,’ I said and extended my hand to her. She stood and came around the desk. She was one of the prettiest women I had ever seen. She had long wavy blonde hair and electric-blue eyes. She wore professional clothing. Her handshake was firm but feminine. She was about five foot six but with her heels, a couple inches taller than that. ‘I’m Gretchen. Welcome to IBS! Are you American?’”
Peter holds up his hand. “Wait. I thought you said her name is Samantha?”
Stephen looks incredulous. “Yes, her name is Samantha.”
“Then who is this Gretchen?”
“She’s the first girl I met in the school.”
Peter starts shaking his extended hand and rises out of his chair. The kid gave him the out he was seeking. “No, this isn’t going to work.”
Stephen remains seated in his chair looking up at Peter. “What? Why?”
“I’ve been sitting here,” Peter pauses and looks at his watch, “for ten minutes. All I have from you is her first name.” He begins shaking his head. “Oh, and she’s from Preston, England. I asked you to tell me about her and you start telling me about your first few days in Hungary and the first girl you met?” Peter holds up both hands. “Sorry, Stephen. You would drive me crazy as a client. I wish you the best of luck in finding her, but that help won’t be from me.”
Stephen stands and his voice rises in pitch. “Peter. Please don’t leave. I’m sorry.”
He seems genuine and Peter hesitates. He pushes aside the growing sense of guilt and embraces the relief.
“I know people, Stephen. I know when they are lying to me. You are intentionally withholding information from me. I can’t work with clients like that.” He leans forward and pats Stephen on the shoulder. “Sorry, I’m already late to another appointment.” With that, he turns and walks out the door leaving Stephen staring after him.
Chapter two
Peter
As Peter exits the small café, he looks at his watch. Fifteen minutes to reach Memento Park. Even in the best of traffic, arriving on time would be tight. It’s now rush hour. Peter can only hope for a miracle at this point. A week ago, he was contacted by a man who had been robbed. The robbery included several old communist relics which had sentimental value to him. Yesterday, he learned a thief was planning to sell them to Ferenc, the proprietor of the memorabilia shop in Memento Park. The thief promised to return at five pm. Peter’s client would pay a premium for the return of the property, but he was going to miss his chance. The thief would come, Ferenc would turn down the opportunity to buy, the thief would know someone had tipped him off, and he would disappear. Peter would lose him.
He walks briskly now, almost running. The sidewalk is full of people, and he has to dodge and weave as he makes his way from the café to Móricz Zsigmond Square. The square is close, maybe only a hundred meters away. Peter knows he can find a taxicab parked in front of the grocery store, Tesco. As Peter rounds the corner and enters the square, he looks to his right and sees two yellow taxi cabs parked on the corner. He runs to one, opens the car door, and slides into the seat, slamming the door behind him. “Memento Park” he tells the driver. “And I’ll give you an extra five hundred forint if you can make it there by five p.m.” That seems to be the right amount of motivation for the driver. He never even turns around to look at Peter. Instead, he pulls out from the curb and guns it, cutting in front of several cars and winning himself a chorus of honks and extended middle fingers.
Fifteen minutes later, Peter pays his driver and gets out at the most unique spot in all of Budapest. After the fall of the Soviet Union, Hungary tried to erase any memories of those oppressive forty years. They began to rename, or in some cases, revert back to former street names and buildings. They removed communist statues from all across Hungary and created this park. The park includes a photo exhibition and storage showroom. Today it is the storage showroom Peter is interested in. The showroom displays loads of old communist memorabilia for purchase. As Peter enters the showroom, he is pleased to see Ferenc behind the desk. He is a small man with large glasses and gray, almost white, hair. His face shows the wear of a longtime business owner. He looks at Peter and his eyes widen as recognition dawns.
