“I can’t.”
Nygren’s voice filled the theater. “Why not? How can you speak in tongues then?”
“It’s an act.”
“So speaking in tongues was an act. What about all this?”
Nygren swept his hand over the congregation in an arc.
“Everything is…”
“Everything is what?”
“An act.”
“So you’re a fraud. Do I understand you correctly?”
“Damnit Nygren, we were friends once…”
“Do I understand you correctly?”
“Yes…”
Nygren forced Koistinen to his knees and took a handful of his hair.
“You heard him. He’s a fraud, sadly. The worst kind. A ravening wolf in sheep’s clothing. Men like him are shepherds as long as the sheep have wool to shear and meat to grind. After that, he’ll leave his flock to the beasts. He piles his burdens on others’ backs, but carries none himself. He dictates what you can do, but heeds no rules himself.”
Koistinen tried to jerk free, but Nygren tightened his grip.
“Ask their forgiveness. Ask your followers for forgiveness.”
“Goddamnit, Nygren…”
Koistinen tried to stand, but Nygren shoved him down.
“Ask for forgiveness!”
“Please forgive me.”
“You’re a swindler and a false prophet. What are you?”
“A swindler…a false prophet.”
“And a ravening wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
“And a ravening…wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
Nygren let go and Koistinen nearly fell on his face.
“Get up!”
Koistinen stumbled to his feet looking drugged.
Nygren scanned the hushed crowd. Not the slightest hint of self-satisfaction or triumph showed on his face. On the contrary, he looked saddened.
“Try not to be so gullible. The world is full of false prophets from the same stock as myself and this black-souled brother Koistinen. Be skeptical, but don’t stop searching. Maybe you’ll find a good shepherd yet. Remember that a tree is known by its fruit, and a bad tree bears no good fruit.”
Nygren stepped down from the lectern, looking every bit as old and stiff as he was.
Outside, it was already dusk and the rain had just picked up. Nygren flipped up the collar of his coat and stepped out of the foyer into the rain.
“What’d you think?”
“An impressive show.”
“I didn’t read the Bible in prison for nothing… Mom always wanted me to be a preacher.”
“You’d have been a good one,” said Raid.
* * *
Raid drove and Nygren sat in the back seat. Nygren watched the landscape disappear into the darkness. He hadn’t said a word for more than half an hour, but that suited Raid just fine.
“You still with me, Raid?”
“Don’t doubt me, Thomas.”
“To the end?”
“To the end.”
2.
“Bend to the side…down…up…now to the right. Stand up straight, Jansson… Down…up…left…right. Jansson, can’t you straighten your back anymore?”
The instructor was blonde, about forty years old, and the water slid across her hips as she waded over to Jansson. She placed one hand on his back and the other on his belly. Despite her slenderness, her arms were strong. She looked at Jansson and smiled.
“Relax. Don’t be so stiff.”
Jansson glanced over at the row of amused faces on the pool deck. Huusko laughed aloud.
“Listen to the girl, don’t be so stiff. A man oughta have only one stiff spot, and it’s not your back.”
“Stop it, Huusko,” she snapped, but watered down her scolding with a smile.
Jansson waded to the edge of the pool and pushed himself up. The water gave his body buoyancy, making the feat seem effortless.
“I’ve had enough.”
“Just messin’ around,” said Huusko.
After a quarter mile of swimming, Jansson could have sworn his body was more muscular. But one glance at his stomach told him the feeling was an illusion; the same sixty pounds of excess fat were in the same place as always. Still, his back felt better.
“How can such a big man give up so easy?” the instructor prodded.
“Hey, big man, wait for me at the bar,” Huusko shouted as Jansson padded off.
“You’re here to get in shape, not to get drunk,” the instructor said.
“Why not both?”
Jansson sat in the sauna for a few minutes before stepping into the shower. Then he put on a robe, tucked his towel and shaving kit under his arm and set off down the long hallway toward his room, all the way at the end on the right-hand side. Huusko’s was just across the hall. Once inside, Jansson’s first order of business was to pour himself a shot of whiskey, then he collapsed onto the bed.
The room was intended for two, but there were enough vacancies that Jansson had gotten it to himself. It featured a wardrobe, nightstand, chair, television and a phone. A sappy landscape print hung on the wall. Clean, but impersonal. A month earlier, the room had been remodeled and it still smelled of paint. The rest of the building was still a construction zone.
The window was slightly ajar and Jansson heard a loud argument from the front yard. He picked up his tumbler and went to have a look. A maintenance man was disputing a young construction worker’s choice of parking spots for his trailer.
The front yard of the physical rehabilitation center was expansive. Nearest the building was an asphalt parking lot for guests. The maintenance man didn’t deem contractors as guests, and even though barely a dozen cars were parked in the front lot, he insisted on ushering the trailer to the rear.
The building was situated in the middle of a gloomy, boulder-ridden spruce forest. With his rehabilitation only on its third day, Jansson was already feeling distressed. How in the hell could he possibly endure two weeks?
In reality, Jansson’s back wasn’t in such bad shape. He had strained it while turning his compost pile. The department’s doctor had examined him and criticized his excess weight and lack of exercise. Jansson couldn’t help but admit the doctor had a point, and he had promised to do something about it. For lack of anything better to say, he had inquired about physical rehabilitation.
To Jansson’s surprise, a few days later he received a written notice informing him that he was now enrolled in a physical rehab program. The center was owned by a union affiliated with the Social Democratic Party and was apparently trying to find customers, even if by force. The center’s state funding was determined by its enrollment, so with some shrewdness and cunning, any government employee who didn’t put up much of a fight was being funneled into the program. Half of the police force had been through the same regimen, Huusko more than any other, though his only ailments were the occasional hangover and chronic sweaty feet.
Either the police doctor was a henchman for the Social Democratic Party or a shareholder of the center. Nothing else could explain such enthusiasm for its services.
Jansson had been wary of rehab from the start. It seemed to him that the patients were treated like brainless cretins, ordered to perform strange gesticulations for no justifiable reason.
For Jansson, these water aerobics were little more than ritual humiliation.
Or perhaps he just had an attitude problem. Huusko and the others seemed to be enjoying themselves. The food was free as well as healthy, they were still getting paid, and there was always someone on hand to listen to the patient’s self-diagnoses for aches, pains and joint wear.
Even so, Jansson had been stubbornly resistant from the beginning. To top off the boredom, his conscience bothered him; he felt he was defrauding the public. Jansson put the blame, at least in part, on Huusko, who had painted a tempting but distorted picture of physical rehab. Jansson still couldn’t understand how Huusko had managed to lure him out to the middle of nowhere.
But Huusko wasn’t the only culprit—Jansson blamed his wife, too. Had she been as suspicious and contrary as usual, he never would have gone.
“Of course you should go, if it’s free,” she had said. “You’ll get some exercise and healthy food, and you can rest and take care of yourself. You’re not getting any younger. Anyway, I warned you about overexerting yourself.”
Even Captain Tuomela hadn’t tried to deter him, though Jansson was in the middle of a murder investigation that was all over the tabloids.
“There’s no statute of limitation for murders,” Tuomela had said. Jansson thought his boss had been suspiciously generous.
The first night there, Jansson figured out why Huusko had been so eager about rehab. There was a certain nurse he knew from before. Their affair had been hot, but fleeting.
The woman had cared for Huusko after he sustained a gunshot wound five years earlier. Huusko had stopped a man suspected of a recent stabbing when, without warning, the man pulled a gun and shot him three times. Though the weapon was only a .22, one of the bullets had hit him in the heart.
For a moment, Huusko had breathed his last, but a doctor had revived him in the back of an ambulance. A quick surgery had saved his life. Another bullet had hit him in the shoulder blade and the wound had required a month of physical rehab. A man like Huusko couldn’t bear such a close relationship with an attractive woman without trying something.
The nurse’s husband had discovered the relationship and filed for divorce. Afterwards, she had moved from Helsinki to the small town near the physical rehab center and began practicing there.
Jansson glanced at his watch. Ten past three. Only three hours since lunch and he was already hungry. The food at the clinic was light and healthy. For lunch, they had had cabbage soup, and the dinner menu included steamed rainbow trout and vegetable stew. Jansson was sure he would suffer from withdrawal if he didn’t get a proper steak dinner soon, but the nurses had imposed a strict diet and monitored it aggressively.
At half-past three, Jansson called his wife at work to complain about the conditions and slow passage of time, but he didn’t get the sympathy he was looking for. As she was just on her way to a meeting, she cut the conversation short. Jansson promised to call back in the evening.
Feeling vaguely restless, Jansson got dressed and went to look for something to do.
Half a dozen war veterans were sitting at a table near the window in the lobby, clinking coffee cups and sipping lemonade.
The recreation area featured a billiards table, ping-pong and a small library and reading room. Jansson picked up a copy of Technology Today and tried to focus on reading, but when he realized he had been staring at the same paragraph without reading a single word, he tossed it aside.
Jansson felt abandoned. His wife didn’t care to talk to him and Huusko spent his time chasing his physical therapist. He felt alone, as if in the middle of a dark forest, useless and forgotten.
Jansson was in search of a suitable scapegoat for all his recent troubles.
“You’re not getting any younger.”
Jansson clung to his wife’s every word.
He was fifty-four. Did she think he was too old? She was only four years his junior, after all.
Jansson was slowly coming to terms with the fact that his despondency had stemmed from his wife’s comment. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but at that moment, it had struck a nerve and lingered, gnawing at his mind.
He had strained his back while slaving away at the compost pile, despite his wife’s warnings. Her sarcastic reminders about it hurt more than she realized. Jansson himself had noticed how heavy his breathing had been while climbing the stairs. His wife described his gait as a crawl. Even the suggestion of any slightly more complicated sexual positions had made her laugh in his face.
That laugh had sent both his prowess and passion reeling.
Jansson had convinced himself that he was just out of shape, but after her remarks, he had had to admit to himself that his age was as much to blame.
The previous week, a colleague—two years his junior—had undergone bypass surgery. Jansson and Huusko had been to see him at the hospital.
As they left the hospital, Jansson had heard Huusko whispering to himself: Good luck with retirement, Gramps.
Though the comment had grated on Jansson, he hadn’t said a word, but Huusko had noticed.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“I’ll let you know when you don’t.”
“You know I got a good heart. I only hurt people by accident.”
“Huusko, you really think Leppä’s a gramps?”
“He didn’t hear that.”
“I did. He’s a year and a half younger than I am.”
“He looks a lot older,” was Huusko’s slippery response.
“I don’t buy it.”
“You wanna know what I think?”
“No.”
“I think you’re one of those ‘forever-young’ types.”
“I don’t want to be young.”
“And not old either?”
“Not yet.”
That’s when Huusko had started to coax Jansson into coming along to the rehab center. People would see Jansson as a new man, he promised.
Jansson walked into the lobby where the patients were gathering for dinner. The trout smelled fishy, and in the worst way.
It crossed Jansson’s mind that his wife and his colleagues might be conspiring against him.
Huusko entered the lobby swinging a duffle bag and wearing a gray tracksuit, running shoes and his trademark black leather jacket. His step was light, his manner unspoiled by any trace of worry. He had come from the direction of the staff dormitories—Jansson could guess which room.
Huusko spotted Jansson standing by the bulletin board, studying it with his arms crossed.
“I found something for us to do tonight.”
“For us or you?”
“You think I’d forget the man on whose goodwill my entire future hangs? Got us a window table at the Millhouse Tavern. Tonight we’ll have meat.”
“Didn’t you already get some?”
“C’mon, I’m talking about food. They got pepper steaks with creamy garlic mashed potatoes on the menu. On the way back we can stop by the deli for meat pies and fried sausages.”
“Sounds good. We taking a taxi?”
“Yup. To celebrate payday.”
Jansson returned to his room and chose his best outfit: black pressed pants and a dark blue nautical blazer.
Jansson had laid his clothes on the bed when his cellphone rang on the nightstand. The caller was unidentified—the display read only an asterisk.
“Jansson.”
“Kempas here. I heard you’re at rehab. Your old bones bothering you?”
Kempas was a veteran lieutenant in charge of the Helsinki Police Department’s undercover operations. He had a reputation for being difficult.
“Was there something you wanted to talk about?”
“I hear you know a torpedo by the name of Raid.”
For some reason, Kempas’ style grated on Jansson.
“So?”
“Working on a case over here and ran across his name. We need some background on him.”
“What case?”
“He’s travelling with Nygren, an old ex-con. I’d like to know why.”
“And I’m supposed to know?”
“I’ve been told you know Raid better than anyone in the department. They say you’re almost pals.”
“Not enough that he calls me up to give regular updates.”
“Can’t you venture a guess?”
“Raid sells protection. Maybe he’s along as a bodyguard.”
“Nygren’s never needed one before.”
“Sorry, that’s my best guess.”
“Maybe Raid’s helping Nygren with a job? Nygren has a record in Sweden too. Hasn’t Raid been living in Sweden for quite some time?”
&
nbsp; “There and Denmark.”
“Maybe they know each other from there.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, we could use the names of anyone in Finland who knows Raid, and of course, anything else pertaining to him. You’re the one who investigated the Imatra Castle Hotel and warehouse shootings. Wasn’t Raid a suspect in those?”
“Yeah, but tell me this… If Nygren and Raid haven’t done anything wrong, why are you after them?”
“If Nygren hasn’t done anything yet, he’s about to. The guy’s been in the business for almost forty years, and I’d just as soon the bastard spent his retirement in a cell.”
“What do you have against Nygren?”
“Cops hate crooks like cats hate mice.”
Jansson’s heart went cold. He knew Nygren, and didn’t consider him the worst of criminals. A career criminal, yes, but in his own way, he was entertaining.
The first time Jansson met Nygren had been nearly twenty years earlier, while investigating a gunfight in an illicit Helsinki gambling house that attracted a host of shady characters.
Nygren had been working the card table when a fight broke out among the gamblers. Two were shot; one of them was Nygren, who took a bullet in the stomach and nearly died.
Jansson suspected that Nygren was the second shooter. There had to have been two, since two types of bullet casings had been found. The guns, however, were never recovered. When the shooting occurred, there were about twenty people in the casino, but all had fled before the police arrived. Only the wounded were left.
As soon as Nygren’s condition had stabilized, Jansson interrogated him, but to no avail. The other victim had kept his mouth shut as well. The case had remained unsolved and had often troubled Jansson over the years.
Nygren’s rakish style and sense of humor had made an impression on Jansson. In a way, he was a kind of gentleman criminal with his own moral code, which he stuck to.
In Jansson’s opinion, Nygren wasn’t violent, though he’d been involved in a couple of big cases. He was a suspect in a Stockholm robbery three years earlier, in which eight million kronor were stolen from the central train station. Sufficient evidence against Nygren was never found.
“I don’t think I’ll be of much help,” Jansson replied.
Raid and the Blackest Sheep Page 2