Slowly We Die

by Emelie Schepp

  “Yes, I understand,” Alexander said in a calm and friendly voice. “Your mother, Margaretha, died of a heart attack. And although the ambulance arrived quickly, the paramedics couldn’t save her life. As I’m sure you know, heart attack is the most common cause of death in Sweden.”

  Jana nodded.

  “What do you think?” he said. “Should we go...see her?”

  Jana nodded again.

  They walked down a hallway. She was in no hurry to face what awaited her, but at the same time wanted to get the identification behind her. She walked a few paces behind the doctor. He looked back now and then and tried to smile at her, but she avoided his gaze.

  “It’s hard, I know,” he said. “But at the same time, it’s an important part of the grieving process. I’ve heard many people say that seeing their loved one a last time gave them a sense of relief, a release.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “But certainly, there are many ways to feel, think and act when we’re confronted with the fate that awaits us all. Especially when we’re dealing with a parent. Were you close, you and your mom?”

  He made one more attempt at small talk, but gave up after a while when he realized that she wasn’t interested.

  Her concentration was fixed on her footsteps; she thought about how each step sent small, imperceptible waves through her body.

  “I imagine in your profession you are accustomed to seeing the deceased. But it can affect you differently when it is someone you are close to,” the doctor said when they arrived at the room.

  She remained silent, and he mumbled something as he reached his hand forward and pushed the door handle.

  The door to the small room opened slowly. He let her go in first, and she felt his searching gaze on her. What was he expecting? Sorrow and nervousness? Or desperation, screaming, pleading?

  Instead of meeting his gaze, she stood in the middle of the room without moving a muscle.

  The entire room was yellow. The linoleum floor, the walls, the ventilation shaft. There were a table and two chairs, and a print on the wall depicting a blue sky over a valley. Otherwise the room was void of personality.

  A room for death.

  Her mother, Margaretha Berzelius, lay on a gurney with a white sheet covering her body. Her small, pale hands lay by her side atop the sheet. The tendons were visible under the skin. Her thin-rimmed glasses were missing. Her eyes were closed, but her mouth was gaping open. Jana noticed the slight bruise marks on her mother’s nostrils and thought it must have come from CPR.

  “I am terribly, terribly sorry,” the chief physician said, pulling a chair forward. Jana shook her head.

  “Are we done?” she asked.

  “There’s no hurry,” he said. “Take your time.”

  Jana felt her jaw muscles tighten.

  “Thank you,” she said. “But I would like to leave now.”

  * * *

  Philip Engström unlocked the door of his single-story house in Skarphagen, stepped inside, flicked on the light and stood there as the door swung shut behind him with a thud.

  From the silence, he could tell that his wife, Lina, wasn’t home. Did she have a lecture? Or was she at the library working on her thesis? He couldn’t remember what she had told him when he left for work the day before.

  He yawned as he took off his shoes and jacket. He continued into the bathroom and took a pill from a blister pack of Imovane—a sleep aid—and swallowed it with a sip of water. Then he popped another sedative, Sobril, into his mouth and pushed it far back on his tongue to avoid its terrible taste. He swallowed that, too.

  He’d been having trouble sleeping for at least ten years now. But he was able to get by as long as he took the pills that his doctor prescribed for him. He could only sleep when medicated, and so his sleep was never really deep or refreshing. But at least he slept.

  As he dried his hands on a towel, he realized that his ring finger felt naked. He held up his hand and saw his wedding ring was missing. Where had he had it last? In the crew lounge? In the ambulance? In the locker room? He hadn’t the faintest idea.

  Damn it!

  Philip went into the bedroom and lay down, pulling the comforter over himself and closing his eyes. He tried to relax but couldn’t. He tossed and turned, kicked off the comforter, then quickly pulled it back over his body again.

  Shit!

  The conversation with his colleague Sandra hadn’t exactly made him feel calmer. He knew that she meant well, but it unnerved him. If she hadn’t become a close friend of Lina’s, he would never put up with her intrusiveness.

  Sure, sometimes you might want to process something by talking it through. But in this case, what was there to talk about? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. A patient died on the way to the hospital. Period. No one’s fault. It happens. Not everyone survives a heart attack.

  Truth be told, there was only one person he could really talk to these days. Not about his feelings, of course, but about everything else. His colleague Katarina Vinston, who was six years older than him and who was not only incredibly supportive, but also a skilled paramedic and ambulance driver.

  He and Katarina had spent a lot of time together on the job. They had long conversations in the rig, and often ate and even exercised together in between calls. Their professional relationship had gradually spilled over into a more personal one. Katarina was the only person he could fully confide in. She was his best friend.

  Philip reached for his pants on the floor, and although he knew the pills would take effect any minute, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called Katarina on FaceTime. When she answered, he immediately wrinkled his forehead in worry. The beautiful, dark-haired woman he knew was now pale-faced, her cheeks sunken in.

  “It seems as if you’ve been out sick a long time,” he said.

  “Only a week,” she said softly, “not that long.”

  “You don’t look like yourself,” he said, “but I’m still glad to see you.”

  She laughed out loud.

  “I take it I should ask how you’re feeling,” he said.

  “I’m better,” she said.

  “Better, meaning healthy?”

  “Yes. I’ll be there for our workout tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She laughed again, louder this time, and Philip saw her eyes glitter.

  “But I would’ve liked to stay at home a bit longer,” she said.

  “Why? Aren’t you feeling well enough?”

  “Oh, that’s not it. I’m just getting tired of working, of the routine. Aren’t you?”

  “No, actually. I could work forever as long as the job stays interesting.”

  “And you think it is?”

  “Yes, I do. I like my colleagues, and enjoy being with them and they...well...”

  “They like being with you?”

  “Yes. At least I think so.”

  “And that’s important to you?”

  “What can I say?” Philip said, his voice steady, meeting her thoughtful gaze. “I’m reliable. Without me, the whole place would fall apart.”

  “What about Richard Nilsson?” she asked suddenly.

  “What about him?”

  “I was asked to take his shift tonight, but I said no. Is he sick, too?”

  “No idea. Either he has a bad cold, or he’s sitting at home with his old lady and kids. Doesn’t matter to me.”

  “So did you take the shift, Philip?”

  “Yes. I clock in again at eight tonight.”

  “And that’s the start of a twenty-four-hour shift?”

  “It’s not against the rules.”

  She held her pale blue eyes on him for a long time before saying: “I don’t understand how you can do it. Don’t you get exhausted?”

  “Not really,” he said, an
d now it was his turn to smile. He grinned widely but not convincingly enough.

  She shook her head. “It’s never a problem for you, is it?” she said.

  “Nope. I like to keep busy and I like my job.”

  “Well, I’m going to have a problem with you if you don’t go to sleep now.”

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I want to work alongside a well-rested colleague at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Especially if you’ve already been working the previous twelve hours. So go to sleep now.”

  “It’s hard to sleep when it’s still light out.”

  “Try anyway.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “See you in the morning, then, Katarina.”

  And then she was gone.

  Philip put the phone down on his stomach and observed the numbness starting to flow through his body from the pills. He looked at the potted plant on the windowsill, watched the leaves swaying back and forth, and relaxed, relieved that the pills had started to take effect.

  * * *

  Jana Berzelius had seen death up close many times. But seeing her mother’s body at the hospital was another thing altogether. It was too close, and she hadn’t been prepared for it. Now her body would be sent to the morgue, lying there until the funeral took place.

  Jana didn’t care that a heart attack was the most common cause of death in Sweden. The only thing she could think about was how sad she felt now that her mother was really gone—forever. And that the sadness surprised her.

  She rested her elbow on the inside of the car door and decided there was no reason to get all emotional. Her mother was dead, and she might as well just notify her father immediately. He should know.

  She started to drive, passed a small truck, swung through a roundabout and continued on Lindövägen. She darted around a bus marked with orange-and-red circles that was about to swing out from its stop. The driver honked the horn loudly with annoyance several times at her.

  When she stopped in front of the large white house in the wealthy Lindö neighborhood, she realized that her palms were damp. Her keys jingled as she unlocked the front door to her childhood home.

  In the hallway, she was met by a musty odor that repulsed her. She felt a fleeting panic in her chest and fought the impulse to leave, to escape the rotten, sickly sweet smell of illness.

  But she had no choice.

  She had to tell her father.

  Her palms were still sweating as she unbuttoned her coat and hung it on the brass hook.

  Jana glanced down the hallway lined with rooms, then walked toward the kitchen. The house was unlit, but sunlight peeked in through the curtains of the living room and was reflected on the ceiling as she passed through.

  She could hear a strange rolling sound coming from the kitchen.

  She stood still, listening.

  It was almost three months ago that her father tried to commit suicide when she confronted him about his involvement in Policegate. She alone knew that he had been corrupt throughout his career as a prosecutor. And she had made a promise to him to never reveal it.

  She heard it again. A heavy, swinging sound, as if a person was slowly wheeling himself across a wooden floor.

  As she entered the kitchen, she saw the wheelchair and stood observing for a long time.

  There he sat.

  Old. Gray. Miserable. Incapacitated.

  “Hello, Father,” she said.

  * * *

  Lead investigator Gunnar Öhrn opened a can of Coca-Cola and drank it quickly, as if he were worried it would go flat. Henrik and Mia stood next to him near the window. It was afternoon, and the staff kitchen was otherwise empty.

  “It feels shitty to be hunting Danilo Peña again,” Mia said, slurping her coffee.

  “The boathouse where you caught him, might he have gone back there?” asked Henrik.

  “Hardly,” Mia said. “He’s definitely fucking disturbed, but he’s not that crazy. Arkösund has to be the last place he’d go.”

  Mia thought of the boathouse, and she could almost feel the cold whirling flakes as she watched the ambulance helicopter take off into the sky above her. They had managed to rescue a Thai girl from drowning, a girl who had been used as a mule in the Policegate drug ring. Close to the boathouse they had also found Danilo, the man who was holding the Thai girl captive in the boathouse and who had tried to kill her.

  Gunnar sighed.

  “But how could he be in a medically induced coma and then just suddenly stand up, plan his escape and just walk away? The doctors at Vrinnevi must not have been monitoring his condition very closely,” he said. “Why was he in the hospital for so long, anyway?”

  “I talked with one of the doctors,” Henrik said. “There’d been a complication after the various surgeries he underwent for his injuries. Something had started leaking after the last of the operations when they stitched up his intestines. It caused an infection, if I understood the doctor correctly,” Henrik said. “Danilo was on a number of medications as he recovered, including Stesolid, which is a muscle relaxant and a sedative...”

  “And which put Mattias right to sleep,” Mia said.

  “Yes, Stesolid makes you drowsy. But if you stick a needle full directly into your chest, you risk hitting the heart or lungs. You can die if you don’t get care immediately.”

  “So Mattias Bohed got lucky,” Gunnar said. “Have we gotten any information from the guard who was beaten and locked in the closet?”

  “Nothing worthwhile,” Henrik said.

  Anneli Lindgren came into the staff kitchen and nodded at them, her eyebrows raised.

  “Are you having a meeting in here?” she asked.

  “Only of the more informal variety,” Henrik replied.

  She took a mug from the cupboard and filled it with hot water. Gunnar tried to ignore Anneli, pretending that his former live-in partner and the mother of his child hadn’t entered the room.

  “Was his name Anders, the guard?” he asked.

  “Andreas,” Henrik said.

  “Sorry, I...”

  Gunnar took three long, slow gulps of his Coke as he waited for Anneli to leave the room with her cup of tea.

  “So. Where were we?” he said once the sound of her footsteps had disappeared down the hallway.

  “The guard’s name is Andreas Hedberg, and he’s twenty-four years old,” Henrik said. “Worked as a guard for a year or so.”

  “And he probably won’t stay after this,” Mia said.

  “Why did they have a relative rookie outside the door? I thought we insisted on only the most experienced,” Gunnar said. “Have we checked him out thoroughly? He didn’t help Peña, did he?”

  “And received a beating as thanks, you mean?” Mia said.

  “Probably not,” Henrik said. “But we’re questioning him this afternoon.”

  “Should we put Danilo’s name out there?” Gunnar asked. “I assume the media has already snapped up the news. You don’t cordon off the entrance to Vrinnevi without good reason.”

  Henrik furrowed his brow.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that Danilo Peña is a dangerous criminal.”

  “But we’ve already issued a BOLO for him once, in connection with Policegate,” Henrik said, looking resolute. “Won’t it make us look completely ridiculous if we put his name and picture out there again?”

  “Yes, but do we have a choice?” Mia said. “How long can we hide that Peña has escaped from his guarded room at the hospital? If something happens while he’s AWOL, it will only mean that we have to deal with a whole new mess of shit. Haven’t we already had enough to deal with?”

  “You have a point there, Mia,” Gunnar said, setting his empty can on the table. “But I agree with Henrik, that it’s probably better to work quietly for a bi
t longer.”

  “Good,” Henrik said. “We have to focus on finding him before the media even knows that he has escaped and prove that our new organization actually works.”

  Gunnar grinned.

  “Okay, then,” he said. “Collect all of the information we have on Danilo.”

  “What do you want to know?” Henrik asked.

  “I want to know everything. Again.”

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  PHILIP ENGSTRÖM STARED at the ceiling light, thinking about the strange dream he’d just woken up from. He had been in a museum, looking at a man dressed all in white who was standing completely still in a glass case. The disturbing part was that the man looked exactly like him.

  He reached across the bed, grabbed his cell phone to check the time and saw that it was already five in the afternoon. He also saw a text from Lina, read it quickly and got out of bed.

  He put on his pants and pulled a shirt over his head as he left the bedroom and walked into the kitchen. As usual, the refrigerator door refused to open until he jerked the handle with both hands. He surveyed its contents: butter packets, ketchup bottle, jar of pickles.

  Just as he picked up the milk carton to check the expiration date, he heard Lina’s voice from the entranceway.

  “Hello? Sweetie, are you home?”

  “Yes, I’m here,” he answered. He heard the front door close as he took a mouthful of milk from the carton and put it back in the fridge. When she came into the kitchen, he was standing quietly by the kitchen table.

  “Great that you’re already up,” she said. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yeah,” he mumbled.

  She caressed his arm, gave him a light kiss on the cheek and set a white plastic bag on the table.

  “I got takeout.”

  “Oh, nice.”

  “Red curry.”

  “Are we celebrating something?” he asked

  “No, I just didn’t want to waste time cooking dinner. I thought we could use the time for something better.”

  Philip felt her hand slip around his arm, and he looked at her. The text message she’d sent earlier had been just three words: Snuggle time tonight.