* * *
Raid awoke to a scream just before three in the morning. It was followed by a broken howl and sobs, which faded almost completely before picking up again.
Raid threw on his pants, went into the hallway and opened Nygren’s door with the key-card.
The light was on in the bathroom, and the open door cast a swath of light against the wall. Raid snapped on the lights in the entry. Nygren’s room was identical to his own: a large bed, small nightstand, a television and a mini-bar. Raid’s bar was still stocked, but Nygren’s was empty. On the nightstand, rows of miniature bottles were arranged like chess pieces. Nygren’s pants were neatly folded on the edge of the chair.
Nygren was sitting halfway up, and was staring blankly through his knees. His breathing was deep and labored. His hair jutted in every direction and his face glistened with sweat.
The only drink left was still in the mini-bar, an unopened bottle of orange juice. Raid opened it, poured some into the glass on the nightstand and offered it to Nygren.
“You have a nightmare?”
Nygren raised his eyes. They were cloudy at first, but slowly he began to come out of it. His arms shuddered like they were freezing.
“No…it was hell.”
He took the juice from Raid and gulped it down.
Raid opened the window and a southern breeze glided in along with the smell of fresh-cut hay.
Nygren crawled out of bed and went to the window. He put his head out and took a deep breath. His upper body was naked, his lower half clothed only in briefs. For his age, he was in good shape, slim and wiry. Only on his neck and face were the lines of age beginning to show. A thin gold chain with a small cross hung from his neck. A hawk flying skyward was tattooed on his right bicep.
“You wanna know what hell is like?”
“Not especially.”
“It’s a nightmare that ends in another that’s even worse than the first, and the chain never ends. Your only emotion is fear, and every sense is harnessed for producing pain. In hell, you can’t close your eyes or plug your ears, or take a gun and put a bullet through your head and say it’s all over now. I thought I had rid myself of these dreams, but this was the worst one yet. Feels like my organs are on ice.”
“You want something?”
“Just stick around long enough for my blood to start pumping again.”
“Tell me about your dream.”
“You don’t wanna know.”
“But you wanna tell.”
Nygren snuffed out his cigarette and wrapped himself in a blanket.
“Well, I died…and, of course, with my lifestyle I ended up in the hot spot. These creatures were all over the place. The ones that, when I was a kid, used to jump out from underneath the bed when the lights were out. They surrounded me, kind of curious, and closing in the whole time. I tried backing up, but the ground was mucky and my feet were stuck. The first one that got to me stuck a sharp tongue out of its mouth, rammed it through me, and started eating my guts.”
Nygren felt his stomach.
“Somehow I realized it was a nightmare and I forced myself to wake up, which I did, but only to another. I was standing out on the plains in Russia or somewhere. Not far off were some soldiers who looked like Huns hacking at their prisoners with these big sabers. Everything was in vivid detail, the soldiers’ clothing, the horses’ saddle ornaments, the fear in the dying men’s eyes, the suffering. Everything seemed real.
“I was afraid the soldiers would notice me so I forced myself to wake up…”
Nygren gathered the blanket more tightly around himself. It seemed to Raid that Nygren was eyeing him warily, as if afraid he had woken up to yet another nightmare.
Raid lifted his hand and Nygren shrank away. Then he realized what Raid was up to and reluctantly touched his hand.
“Yarns from an old man.”
Nygren took a cigarette off the table and lit it with trembling fingers.
“Do you believe I’m not the least bit ashamed to admit that I’m afraid?”
“Yes.”
“If you’ve done the kinds of things I have, and lived long enough, you’re not capable of being ashamed of much anymore. At least not about what might matter to others. These days I’m only ashamed of stuff from the past.”
Raid took a chair and sat down next to Nygren.
Nygren glanced at him.
“These memories keep coming back to me about things that happened decades ago. At the time, they didn’t mean shit to me, but now I regret them, and I can’t forget. They’re like the bloodhounds of the past, tasked with chasing me to the grave. No matter how hard you try, you can’t shake ’em off or bribe ’em.”
Nygren beat his temple with the base of his palm, then glanced at Raid.
“Care to listen?”
Raid nodded.
“I was in my final year of elementary school when this family from the backwoods moved to town. They had nine kids. The dad got a job at the church as a gravedigger. He got drunk and dug graves. One winter he passed out at the bottom of the pit and got frostbite on his feet. One of the boys was in a lower grade than me, a short skinny kid with ratty clothes. One day he came to school with some new shoes, brand-new and squeaky clean, but damned if they weren’t as long as canoes. You could just about spin ’em on his ankles. The kid’s big brother was a couple years older and we heard from his friends that they took turns wearing the shoes. Every recess we picked on the kid and trampled on his toes. One time when we were teasing him, he took off the shoes and walked home in his socks. It was November and there was slush on the ground. He fell down once, but didn’t give so much as a backward glance. Everyone else just stood there and watched as he walked away with his shoes in his hands. That was the last time he came to school and his family moved away soon after.”
The memories weighed down on Nygren and he felt compelled to stand. He went to the window and took a breath of night air.
“The sad tale of the boy with big shoes—part two. When I was doing time in Oulu in the early eighties, I ran into him again. I found out he’d murdered two women he had just met at some Christmas party, and got life. There were lots of articles in the paper about it. One writer even sympathized with him…troubled childhood and so forth. I recognized him right away, but he didn’t know who I was, nor was I too eager to reminisce about old times.”
Nygren paused, “Well, tomorrow…today…is a busy day. I think I’ll get some sleep.”
Raid got up and Nygren stopped him.
“Thanks.”
14.
“He hasn’t been a father to me for over twenty years. A father is someone who lives with you, carries you on his shoulders, reads a bedtime story, tucks you into bed and kisses you goodnight. I was six when he left. The next time he saw us was two years later, and then again when I was confirmed. Since then I haven’t even…and now you come asking about him as if I’d know.”
“You’re still his daughter.”
“I have been the whole time, and he still hasn’t come to visit.”
Kempas was standing in the entryway and the woman seemed to have no intention of inviting him in. Some children’s clothes hung from the hooks in the entry and several pairs of children’s shoes and some blue rubber boots lay on the floor. Next to the wall was a telephone stand. From the entry, they could see a strip of the living room and a yellow sofa.
“Hasn’t he met his grandchild?”
“Why are you asking about him? What’d he do this time?”
“We’d just like to chat with him about a certain case.”
“By case you must mean a crime.”
Nygren’s daughter was thin and she had brown hair. Kempas could see Nygren’s resemblance in her.
“Yes.”
“I want to know what he’s done.”
“A man was shot and your father may have been involved.”
“Did he die, this man?”
“No.”
“He’s not a viol
ent man, you know.”
“Who, your father?”
“Yes.”
“We could use some coffee…it might be more comfortable to chat inside.”
She wasn’t going to be softened up that easily.
“I can’t help you…and why would I? He’s my father, after all.”
“What do you do? For work, I mean.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m a policeman investigating a serious crime. Can’t I indulge my curiosity a bit?”
“I work at a travel agency. Does that help?”
“You sell vacations?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s commendable when people do honest work. There’d be no need for us if everybody supported themselves with honest work. People who do honest work can help the police solve crimes. You have a child. Apparently a boy, judging by the color of those boots. How old?”
“Six.”
“I want the world to be a better place for kids, including yours. That’s why I’m a cop, and that’s why I try to keep criminals from committing more crimes.”
“My father might be a criminal, but he’s not a bad person.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Am I being interrogated?”
“No. You can refuse to talk or you can lie. But I hope you don’t.”
The woman bowed her head. She took a moment before making her decision.
“A few days ago.”
“Where?”
“Here…in the yard. He was just passing through and came to see me…only for a couple minutes. He didn’t even come inside.”
“Where was he headed?”
“He said north to Lapland, nothing more.”
“What did he want?”
“I think he just wanted…wanted to see me…and his grandchild.”
“What did you discuss?”
“We didn’t talk much…he apologized for being a terrible father… Read a poem and left.”
“Read a poem?”
“He wrote a poem about me when I was little. He had saved it and gave it to me.”
“What else?”
“He told my son he’s going to Lapland and he’ll say hi to Santa Claus…then he left…”
Kempas scrutinized the woman’s every aspect, the movements of her eyes, the wrinkles in her brow, her hand gestures.
“Is there anything else?” said Kempas. He always asked the question just to be sure. It had scored him many bonuses. This time he knew there was something more.
“He left me…gave me some money…”
“Money? How much?”
“Twenty thousand euros.”
“Oh!” Kempas breathed. “A large sum. Did he say where it came from?”
“He just left a package that I didn’t open till I got inside. I thought it was a toy for Jari…otherwise I wouldn’t have taken it.”
“Was there anything else in the package?”
“A note.”
“What kind of note?”
“It was a message…for me…”
“Yeah?”
“It said…that he loves me…”
The woman’s voice cracked. She covered her eyes with her hand.
Kempas put his hand gently on her shoulder.
“You’ve been a huge help. I only have a couple more questions…if it’s alright.”
She wiped her eyes and composed herself. Kempas didn’t hurry her.
“Did he leave any contact information? An address, a phone number or a name?”
The woman shook her head. She kept sniffling and she wiped her eyes again.
“Do you know if he has any acquaintances or relatives up north?”
“No, and if he does I don’t know them. We’re not exactly a close family.”
“What about his ex-wife, your mother?”
“She lives in Espoo. I doubt he’s been in contact with her. She called yesterday and she certainly would have said something.”
“Did you tell her that Nyg…your father came?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“That it was just like my father to drop by unannounced for five minutes and take off.”
Kempas thought for a moment. The sweatband of his hat was damp and his scalp began to itch. He scratched at his hairline. Some dandruff dropped onto the shoulders of his coat and stood out clearly against the black fabric.
“What should I do with the money?”
“Where is it?”
“It’s here…I haven’t spent any…”
“Spend it however you deem fit. We’re not aware of the money being linked to any crimes.”
“You mean…can I really…”
Kempas raised his right hand in the scout’s oath.
“Cops don’t lie. You’ve got my permission to spend it.”
She smiled for the first time.
“One more thing. Was he alone?”
“No.”
“Was he accompanied by a man named Raid?”
She nodded.
“Did this Raid say anything?”
“No. Not a word.”
“We’d like to know more about him…especially how your father knows him.”
The woman looked at Kempas, somewhat surprised.
“You mean you don’t know?”
* * *
Nygren’s daughter’s apartment was on the fourth floor. Kempas decided to take the stairs down, though the elevator had already been waiting.
The yard and playground were visible from the windows in the landings. A group of boys had gathered to build a race track in the sandbox. Kempas walked over to watch them play.
“Is one of you Jari?”
A boy with a ball cap looked up.
“Are you Jari?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d you like to help me out with a top secret detective case?”
“What case?”
Kempas took out his badge.
“Do you know how to read?”
“Yeah…I’m in kindergarten.”
“What’s it say here?”
The boy studied the word and sounded it out.
“Po…pol…police…you’re really a policeman?”
“Sure. I’m gonna ask you a couple of detective questions…should we go over there? To the swings?”
Kempas settled into a swing. The boy hesitated before hopping onto the neighboring one.
“Your grandpa stopped by a few days ago, isn’t that right?”
“Yeah…he promised to say hi to Santa.”
“Did your grandpa give you anything?”
“No, but he said he’d ask Santa to give me something. Grandpa said he’s good friends with Santa.”
“Did grandpa say where he was going?”
“To Santa’s workshop.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“No…I’m not sure I like grandpa…he made my mommy cry…”
“Mommies do that sometimes.”
The boy beamed. “But the good thing is he’s really rich.”
“I guess so…do you know how to use the telephone?”
“Yeah, that’s easy.”
“Let’s make a secret pact. If your grandpa sends you a card or a present, call me right away. I’ll give you some police stuff as a reward.”
“A gun?” the boy perked up.
“Well, not quite, but something really cool. What would you think about handcuffs? You could catch criminals with ’em, right?”
“Yeah! I want some handcuffs!”
Kempas underlined the cell number on his business card and handed it to the boy.
“But don’t tell your mom. You’re never supposed to tell moms about secret pacts.”
15.
A man stepped out of a black 1970s Cadillac and glanced around. Under forty, his short hair had been dyed blond and a gold ring pierced his right ear. His black trench coat seemed too tight and he walked with his arms aki
mbo like a body builder. Though the sidewalk was bustling with traffic, he lumbered through unhindered.
“Rusanen is paranoid. He’s afraid the cops are following him,” said Nygren as he observed the man through binoculars from the back window of the Mercedes.
“I’m afraid of that, too,” said Raid.
“They’re not. I know.”
“How?”
“I read it in the horoscopes.”
The man loitered around, shifting from spot to spot and glancing this way and that. He had been doing the same routine for ten minutes, despite the drizzling rain. On one occasion, he had stopped to sit for a couple of minutes in his black Cadillac.
The Mercedes was far enough away that there was no danger of being discovered.
“Go inside already, we don’t have all day,” Nygren muttered to himself.
The man made his decision and headed toward a moss-green two-story job site trailer. The trailer sat within a fenced-in storage area full of scaffolding, dismantled cranes, pallets, rusty piles of rebar and concrete tubes. Just next to the fence was a gray metal pole building. The drizzling rain only highlighted the grunginess of the area.
“The construction company is owned by a dummy firm, just like everything else of Rusanen’s.”
“Let’s go.”
Raid started the engine and pulled up to the spot the body builder had just vacated.
Nygren got out of the car and Raid followed.
“You sure about this?”
“Yes. This is no whim.”
Raid nodded and headed toward the trailer. Just in front of it was a blue Volvo, which had already been there when Raid and Nygren had come by earlier to check out the trailer. Despite the parked Volvo, nobody but the blond muscle man with the gold earring was in the trailer.
Raid opened the door and stepped inside. The trailer was furnished like an office. Shelves lined the walls, and in front of the windows were two desks littered with blueprints and binders. The man was filling the coffeemaker by the sink.
He turned to face Raid.
“Hello,” Raid said.
The man stared silently back at Raid.
Raid and the Blackest Sheep Page 13