by Jo Nesbo
He threw the phone over his shoulder and Woo nimbly stepped to the side and caught it.
“Find out whose number that is and where. Now.”
Jens sat down next to Løken.
“This operation is beginning to get rather urgent, Ivar.”
Holding his nose, he looked down at the floor where a pool had formed around his chair.
“I mean, really, Ivar.”
“Millie’s Karaoke,” Woo said in staccato English. “I know where it is.”
Jens patted Løken on the shoulder.
“Sorry, but we’ve got to be off now, Ivar. We’ll have to go to the hospital when we’re back.”
Løken was aware of the vibration of steps fading in the distance and waited for the air pressure from the slamming of the door. It didn’t come. Instead he heard the distant echo of a voice by his ear.
“Oh yes, I almost forgot, Ivar.”
He felt hot breath on his temple.
“We need something to tie them to the poles with. Could I borrow this tourniquet? You’ll get it back. I promise.”
Løken opened his mouth and felt the mucus in his throat loosen as he roared. Someone else had taken over command in his brain, and he didn’t feel the jerk on the leather straps as he saw the blood wash over the table and the shirtsleeves absorb it all until they were red. He didn’t notice the door close.
* * *
Harry jumped up at the light tap on the door.
Involuntarily he grimaced when it wasn’t Løken but the girl from reception.
“You Harry, mister?”
He nodded.
“Telephone.”
“What did I say?” Liz said. “Hundred baht it’s the traffic.”
He followed the girl to reception, noting in his subconscious that she had the same raven-black hair and the same slim neck as Runa. He stared at the tiny black hairs at the nape of her neck. She turned, flashed a quick smile and stretched out her hand. He nodded and took the receiver.
“Yes?”
“Harry? It’s me.”
Harry thought he sensed his blood vessels widening as his heart began to pump blood faster around his body. He took a couple of breaths before speaking calmly and clearly.
“Where’s Løken, Jens?”
“Ivar? He’s got his hands full and can’t make it.”
Harry could hear from his voice that the masquerade was over; this was Jens Brekke speaking now, the same person he had spoken to in the office the first time. The same teasing, provocative tone of a man who knows he is going to win, but wants to enjoy it before delivering the coup de grâce. Harry tried to grasp what it was that could have swung the odds against him.
“I’ve been waiting for you to call, Harry.” This was not the voice of a desperate man, but one who was in the driving seat, with one nonchalant hand on the wheel.
“Well, you’re ahead of the game, Jens.”
Jens laughed. “It seems I always am, Harry. How does it feel?”
“Wearing. Where’s Løken?”
“Would you like to know what Runa said before she died?”
Harry felt a tingling sensation underneath the skin on his forehead. “No,” he heard himself say. “I just want to know where Løken is, what you’ve done to him and where we can find you.”
“Harry, that’s three wishes at once!”
The membrane in the telephone microphone vibrated with his laughter. But there was something else struggling to capture Harry’s attention, something he couldn’t quite identify. The laughter stopped abruptly.
“Do you know how much self-sacrifice is required to execute a plan like this, Harry? To check and double-check, to follow all the little detours to make it infallible? Not to mention the physical discomfort. Killing is one thing, but do you think I enjoyed sitting in prison all that time? You might not believe me, but what I said about being locked up is true.”
“So why did you bother with all the detours?”
“I’ve told you before, eliminating risks has a cost, but it’s worth it, it’s always worth it. Framing Klipra required painstaking work.”
“So why didn’t you make it simple? Mow them all down and blame the mafia?”
“You think like one of the losers you usually chase, Harry. You’re like gamblers, you forget the whole picture, the consequences. Of course I could have killed Molnes, Klipra and Runa in simpler ways and made sure I didn’t leave any traces. But that wouldn’t have been enough. Because when I took over the Molnes fortune and Phuridell it would have been pretty obvious I had a motive for killing all three of them, wouldn’t it? Three murders and one person with a motive for all of them. Even the police would have been able to suss that one, don’t you think? Even if you hadn’t found any damning evidence you could have made life fairly unpleasant for me. So I had to create an alternative scenario for you. Where one of the victims was the perpetrator. A solution that wasn’t so difficult that you couldn’t sort it out or so easy that you wouldn’t be happy with it. You ought to thank me, Harry. I made you look good when you were on Klipra’s trail, didn’t I.”
Harry was only half listening; he had gone back in time. Then he’d had a murderer’s voice in his ear as well. Then it had been the water in the background that had given him away, but now all Harry could hear was the faint hum of music that could have been anywhere at all.
“What do you want, Jens?”
“What do I want? Well, what do I want? Just a chat, I suppose.”
To keep me on the line, Harry thought. He wants to keep me on the line. Why? Synthetic drums splashed and a clarinet warbled.
“But if you’d like to know precisely, I was just ringing to say …”
Harry could hear “I Just Called to Say I Love You” playing.
“… that your colleague could do with a facelift. What do you think, Harry? Harry?”
The receiver swung to and fro in an arc just above the floor.
Harry felt the sweet rush of adrenalin as though it had been injected into him while he ran down the corridor. The girl with the plaits had backed up against the wall in fear as he dropped the receiver, pulled out his borrowed Ruger SP101 from his calf holster and loaded it in one smooth movement. Had she understood when he shouted to her to call the police? No time to wonder about that now, he was there. Harry kicked open the first door and squinted straight into four shocked faces above the gunsights.
“Sorry.”
In the next room he almost fired a shot out of sheer fright. In the middle of the floor stood a tiny, dark-skinned Thai with his legs akimbo wearing a glittering silver suit and porno-style sunglasses. It took Harry a couple of seconds to realize what he was doing, but by then the rest of “Hound Dog” was stuck in the Thai Elvis’s throat.
Harry stared down the corridor. There had to be at least fifty rooms in all. An alarm bell had been sounding somewhere in his head, but his brain had been so overloaded already that he had tried to shut it out. Now he could hear it loud and clear. Liz! Shit, shit, shit. Jens had kept him on the line.
He sprinted down the corridor, and as he rounded the corner he saw the door to their room was open. He didn’t think anymore, didn’t fear, didn’t hope, just ran, knowing he had crossed the reluctant-to-kill boundary. It wasn’t like a bad dream anymore, it wasn’t like running through water up to your waist. He burst through the door and saw Liz huddled up behind the sofa. He swung his gun around, but too late. Something hit him under the kidneys, knocked the air out of him, and the next moment he felt a grip tightening around his neck, and glimpsed a coiled microphone cable, and the smell of his breath was overwhelming.
Harry thrust his elbow backward; it met something and he heard a groan.
“Tay,” a voice said, and a fist came from behind and struck him under the ear, making him go dizzy. He felt something serious had happened to his jaw. Then the cable around his neck tightened again. He tried to insert a finger, but it was no use. His tongue, inert, was being squeezed out of his mouth as though s
omeone was kissing him from inside. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to pay his dentist’s bill, everything was already going black.
Harry’s brain was fizzing. He couldn’t take any more, he tried to make up his mind to die, but his body wouldn’t obey. He instinctively thrust an arm in the air, but there was no pool net to save him now. There was only prayer, as if he were standing on the bridge in Siam Square begging for eternal life.
“Stop!”
The cable around his neck slackened and oxygen cascaded into his lungs. More, he had to have more! There didn’t seem to be enough air in the room, and his lungs felt as if they were going to explode out of his chest.
“Let him go!” Liz had struggled to her knees and was pointing her Smith & Wesson 650 at Harry.
Harry could feel Woo crouching behind him as he tightened the cable again, but now Harry had his left hand between the cable and his neck.
“Shoot him,” Harry croaked in a Donald Duck voice.
“Let go! Now!” Liz’s pupils were black with fear and anger. A line of blood ran from her ear, over a collarbone and into her neckline.
“He won’t let go. You’ll have to shoot him,” Harry whispered hoarsely.
“Now!” Liz shouted.
“Shoot!” Harry yelled.
“Shut up!” Liz’s gun hand wavered as she tried to keep her balance.
Harry leaned back toward Woo. It was like propping yourself up against a wall. Liz had tears in her eyes, and her head was tipped forward. Harry had seen it before. She had serious concussion, and they had very little time.
“Liz, listen to me now!”
The cable was tightened, and Harry heard the skin on the edge of his hand split.
“Your pupils are wide open, you’re about to go into shock, Liz! Listen! You have to shoot now before it’s too late! You’ll lose consciousness soon, Liz!”
A sob emerged from her lips. “Fuck you, Harry! I can’t. I …”
The cable was cutting through his flesh as if it were butter. He tried to clench his fist, but some nerves must have been torn.
“Liz! Look at me, Liz!”
Liz blinked and blinked again and looked at him through blurry eyes.
“That’s great, Liz. If you can manage to miss me you’re bloody bound to hit him!”
She watched him open-mouthed, then she lowered the gun and burst into laughter. Harry tried to hold Woo back, he had started moving forward, but it was like standing in front of a locomotive. They were above her when something exploded in Harry’s face. A smarting pain traveled through his nerve channels, a new pain, burning this time. He smelled her perfume, he felt her body give way under the weight of Woo pinning all three of them to the floor. The echo of thunder rolled out through the open door and down the corridor. Then there was silence.
Harry was breathing. He lay trapped between Liz and Woo, but his chest was rising and falling. That could only mean he was alive. Something kept dripping. He tried to repress the memory; there was no time for it now, the wet rope, the cold, salty drops on the deck. This wasn’t Sydney. They fell on Liz’s forehead, her eyelids. Then he heard her laughter again. Her eyes opened and were two black windows with white frames in a red wall. Grandad was wielding his ax, dull, muffled blows, the thud as the wood landed on the hard, stamped earth. The sky was blue, the grass tickled his ears, a seagull flew in and out of his vision. He wanted to sleep, but his face was ablaze, he could smell his own flesh from the gunpowder that had burned his pores.
With a groan he rolled out from inside the human sandwich. Liz was still laughing, her eyes were wide open, and he let her continue.
He rolled Woo onto his back. His face had frozen in a surprised expression; his jaw hung open in protest against the black entry wound in his forehead. He had moved Woo, but he could still hear the dripping. He turned to the wall behind them and saw that it wasn’t his imagination. Madonna had changed hair color again. Woo’s plait had attached itself to the top of the picture frame and given her a black, punky hairstyle, dripping something that looked like a mixture of eggnog and red fruit juice. It fell onto the thick carpet with a soft splash.
Liz was still laughing.
“Having a party?” he heard a voice say from the doorway. “And you haven’t invited Jens? And there was me thinking we were friends …”
Harry didn’t turn; his eyes ransacked the floor in a desperate search for the gun. It must have fallen under the table or behind the chair when Woo punched him in the back.
“Is this what you’re looking for, Harry?”
Of course. He turned slowly and stared down the muzzle of his own Ruger SP101. He was about to open his mouth and utter something when he saw Jens was about to shoot. He was holding the gun with both hands and had already leaned forward a fraction to absorb the recoil.
Harry saw the police officer who had rocked back on the chair at Schrøder’s, his moist lips, the scornful smile he didn’t smile, but it was there anyway. The same invisible smile when the Police Commissioner would ask for a moment’s silence.
“The game’s up, Jens,” he heard himself say. “You won’t get away with this.”
“The game’s up? Who actually says that?” Jens sighed and shook his head. “You’ve been watching too many shit action movies, Harry.”
His finger curled around the trigger.
“But, well, OK, this is over now. You’ve just made this look even better than I’d planned. Who do you think will get the blame when they find a mafia henchman and two police officers killed by one another’s bullets?”
Jens squeezed one eye shut, hardly necessary at a distance of three meters. Not a gambler, Harry thought, closing his eyes and subconsciously breathing in, ready to be on the receiving end.
His eardrums were shattered. Three times. Not a gambler. Harry felt his back hit the wall, the floor, he didn’t know what, and the smell of cordite stung his nostrils. The smell of cordite. He understood nothing. Hadn’t Jens fired three times? Shouldn’t he have stopped smelling?
“Shit!” It sounded like someone shouting from under a duvet.
The smoke drifted away and he saw Liz, sitting with her back to the wall, one hand gripping a smoking gun, the other holding her stomach.
“Jesus, he hit me! Are you there, Harry?”
Am I? Harry wondered. He vaguely remembered the kick to the hip that had half spun him around.
“What happened?” Harry shouted, still deaf.
“I fired first. I hit him. I know I hit him, Harry. How did he get away?”
Harry got up, knocked the cups off the table and finally steadied himself on his feet. His left leg had gone to sleep. Sleep? He put his hand on his hip and his trousers were drenched. He didn’t want to look. Stuck out a hand.
“Give me the gun, Liz.”
His eyes were fixed on the doorway. Blood. There was blood on the linoleum. That way. That way, Hole. Just follow the path that has been marked out for you. He looked at Liz. A red rose was growing between her fingers on her blue shirt. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
She groaned and passed him her Smith & Wesson 650.
“Bring him back, Harry.”
He hesitated.
“And that’s an order!”
50
Friday, January 24
Every time he took a step he thrust his leg forward, hoping it wouldn’t give way beneath him. Everything swam before his eyes and he knew it was his brain trying to flee the pain. He limped past the girl in reception, who seemed to be stuck in a pose for The Scream, not a sound passed her lips.
“Ring for an ambulance!” Harry yelled, and she woke up. “A doctor!”
Then he was outside. The wind had dropped; it was just hot, oppressively hot. A car had careered at an angle across the road, there were skid marks on the tarmac, the door was open and the driver was outside waving his arms. He pointed up in the air. Harry held up his arms and ran across the road without looking, knowing that if they saw that he couldn’t give a toss they might stop. There was a s
hriek of rubber. He stared up at where the man had pointed. A caravan of gray elephant silhouettes towered above him. His brain cut in and out like a badly functioning car radio, and a lone trumpet blast filled the night. To the brim. Harry felt the draft of the hooting juggernaut almost tear his shirt off as it thundered past his heels.
He was back again, his eyes searching up the concrete pillars. The elevated Yellow Brick Road. BERTS transport. Yes, why not? In a way it seemed logical.
An iron ladder led to an opening in the concrete directly above him, fifteen, twenty meters up. He could see a segment of the moon through the gap. He put the gun handle between his teeth, noticed that his belt was hanging down, tried not to think what a bullet that had sheared his belt could have done to his hip and hoisted himself up the ladder with his arms. The iron pressed into the cut he had received from the microphone cable.
Can’t feel a thing, Harry thought, and swore as the blood that had covered his hand like a red washing-up glove caused him to lose his grip. He angled his right foot onto the rung and pushed off, climbed onto the next one and pushed off again. Better now. So long as he didn’t pass out. He looked down. Ten meters? He’d definitely better not pass out. Onward and upward. Everything went dark. At first he thought it was his eyes and stopped, but when he looked down he could see cars below and hear a police siren cutting through the air like a saw blade. He looked up again. The opening at the top of the ladder was black; he couldn’t see the moon anymore. Had the sky clouded over? A drop splashed onto the gun barrel. Another mango shower? Harry went for the next rung, his heart throbbed, missed a couple of beats and then continued, it was doing the best it could.
What’s the point? he thought, looking down. Soon the first police car would be there. Jens had probably run down the ghost road howling with laughter, already down a ladder two blocks away and then, hey presto, lost in the crowds. The fucking Wizard of Oz.
The drop ran down the handle and into Harry’s clenched teeth.