East of the Sun, West of the Moon

by Carole Bellacera

  Hakon smiled weakly. “Some other time perhaps...” Erik's grip on his arm tightened. “On second thought, now is as good a time as any."

  "I thought you'd see it my way,” Erik said.

  * * * *

  Leigh opened the door to Sigurd's knock. Dully, she stared at her, too tired to even feel relief at her arrival. Sigurd grabbed her arm and searched her face, concern mirrored in her eyes.

  "You aren't sleeping,” she said.

  "I can't. When I try, I have nightmares."

  Sigurd dropped her purse on the floor and headed for the kitchen. “I'll put on some tea.” Over her shoulder, she went on. “Is the nurse with Knut?"

  Leigh nodded, but when she realized Sigurd wasn't looking at her, she followed her into the kitchen. “Yes, she's in there.” She sat at the heavy pine table. “I think it's going to be over soon. Knut hasn't responded to anything in five days now."

  Sigurd put the kettle on the stove and then sat opposite her. She looked at Leigh sadly. “That's not necessarily true. He could go on like this for months, you know. It happens."

  Horrified, Leigh gazed at Knut's ex-wife. “You're not serious?"

  She nodded. “I did warn you about this."

  "Yes, but ... oh, God, he looks so awful. And the pain! If he doesn't get the morphine every few hours, he's in agony."

  Sigurd had no answer. They sat silently, both of them lost in their own thoughts. The shrill whistle of the tea kettle broke the silence. Sigurd got up to pour the water into cups. She brought two steaming mugs to the table and sat again. Without speaking, she stirred sugar into her tea and then folded her hands together and studied Leigh.

  "Has Knut asked you to help him die?"

  Leigh's stomach lurched. “He brought it up once. Or maybe it was a couple of times. I don't know...” Wearily, she ran her fingers through her rumpled hair. “I told him I couldn't do it, and he dropped it."

  Sigurd's voice was quiet. “Do you think it's right for a person to be forced to live when he's suffering? When he wants to die?"

  "Of course not! But I can't help him. It's murder!"

  "That's what some people will say. Others prefer to call it euthanasia."

  "I don't care.” Leigh shook her head. “It boils down to the same thing. Killing. And I can't do it."

  They finished their tea in silence. Sigurd stood up. “Why don't you go lie down? I'll check on Knut."

  Numbly, Leigh nodded. She would try to sleep. If only the nightmares would let her.

  * * * *

  Erik's mouth tightened as he left the pay phone in the bar. There was no doubt in his mind everything Hakon had told him was true. It all made sense. Finally.

  His life was a sham. His marriage. His son. His brother. All a sham. And it had started years ago when Gunvor was still alive. Margit and Bjorn had been sleeping together while Gunvor was away on the North Sea. And Bjorn, not Erik, had fathered Gunny. Because Erik was sterile. With a smile of satisfaction, Hakon had repeated Bjorn and Margit's hurried conversation in the labyrinth. Yes, even his test results were a sham.

  Erik climbed into his car and sat a moment, knowing he was too angry to drive immediately. Beside him, Hakon huddled, his face the shade of gray putty. Erik knew he was probably thinking about the upcoming confrontation with Bjorn. Unlike Hakon, Erik was looking forward to it. He would never forgive them for this. And it wasn't because of the affair or the deceptions. It was for a far more personal reason. If not for Bjorn and Margit, he would be in America today with Kayleigh. Almost two years out of his life had been wasted on an unfaithful wife and a child who wasn't his own. Those years he could never get back.

  And Kayleigh? Was she gone forever, too?

  He turned to Hakon and smiled coldly. “Ready for the showdown?"

  * * * *

  When the doorbell rang, Margit looked at her watch and smiled. She had a hunch it was Erik. He must have forgotten his key. Or else his hands were full of goodies for her. It would be just like him to come home with champagne and flowers to celebrate his reassurance of virility. Just as Bjorn had promised, his doctor-friend had changed the results of Erik's test. Now, she and Erik could get their marriage back on track. Of course, considering he really was sterile, there wouldn't be any babies in the future for them, but that was something they'd simply have to accept. Just one of those things. Actually, it was fine with her. Another baby would give her more stretch marks.

  Margit still wore her grin when she opened the door. It faded. “What are you doing here?"

  Bjorn walked into the apartment. “I was hoping you could tell me. Erik isn't home yet?"

  Bewildered, Margit stared at him. “No. Is he supposed to be?"

  His face was tense. “I just got a call from him. He told me he had to meet with me here. Said it was urgent."

  Margit's heart gave a lurch. “What do you think?"

  "How the hell do I know what to think?” Bjorn said. “I need a drink."

  He strode to the liquor cabinet and jerkily mixed a gin and tonic. As he lifted it to his lips, the door opened. Bjorn and Margit looked up to see a grim-faced Erik.

  "Where's Gunny?” he asked tersely.

  Margit trembled at the cold look in his eyes. “He's taking his nap. Why?"

  When Erik didn't answer, Margit summoned a smile to her lips and moved toward him. “What's wrong, darling? What did the doctor say?” Her hands slid up his shirt front as she stood on tiptoe to give him a kiss. His lips were like ice. She drew away, her heart slamming in her chest.

  He stared at her a moment, imagining his two hands slipping around her elegant throat, his thumbs settling over her fragile windpipe, then squeezing...

  So, this was what it was like. To feel hatred ... hatred so potent it made you want to kill. His eyes slid to Bjorn. “He said...” Erik said slowly, “...that my sperm count is practically non-existent."

  The blood drained from Margit's face; Bjorn's flooded with color. “But there must be a mistake,” he growled.

  Erik smiled grimly. “The only mistake was the one you made in France, dear brother. In being so careless while you were screwing my wife.” He glanced back at the front door. “You can come on in now, Hakon."

  "Oh, God!” Margit looked as if she were going to faint.

  Hakon walked into the room, wearing a look of fright mingled with satisfaction. He stole a quick glance at Bjorn and then fastened his gaze on Margit. His slight smile turned into a gloat.

  "I told him everything,” he said. “About that day in Albertville. And about the conversation I overheard between you and Bjorn in the labyrinth. Oh, you didn't know about that, did you? Yeah, I heard it all. How you two set him up from the beginning.” He was obviously starting to enjoy himself. “Margit, you married Erik so it would be a good cover for your affair with Bjorn. And you, Bjorn, when you found out Erik couldn't be Gunny's father, you forged the test results .” Hakon turned to Erik. “Oh, and did I tell you it was Bjorn who first came up with the idea of Margit marrying you?” He shrugged. “Who knows why, maybe Anne-Lise was getting suspicious. But when Bjorn discovered Gunny's blood-type was incompatible with Gunvor's and Margit admitted the two of you had slept together, he decided to put this plan in motion."

  "Now, just a minute!” Bjorn cut in. A vein throbbed in his forehead.

  The possibility of a stroke entered Erik's mind. He was mildly surprised when he found he didn't care. “Shut up, Bjorn,” he said, and nodded for Hakon to go on.

  "And Margit, you accused Bjorn of being determined to get that American woman out of Erik's life. I wonder why she was such a threat. Was it because he was afraid Erik would go back to America with her? And then the two of you would have no reason to see each other at social functions."

  Bjorn glowered at his brother-in-law. “You little cocksucker."

  Suddenly Margit threw herself at Erik. “Darling, you have to believe me! He's a liar! He's saying all these awful things about me because I won't sleep with him.” Her arms clu
ng to his neck. Erik was reminded of a black widow spider spinning the deadly web around her prey. How had he never seen this in her before? “Erik, sweetheart, I love you! I would never do such evil things. This is all a fantasy in Hakon's sick mind."

  Erik unhooked her arms from his neck and stepped back. “It was all a lie, wasn't it, Margit?” he said quietly, staring into her white face. “Even that night I spent with you after Gunvor died. You didn't love him. Even then, you were screwing my brother."

  "That's not the worst of it, Erik,” Hakon interrupted, a triumphant smile on his handsome face. “There was something else she said that day in the labyrinth. About the American woman, Kayleigh."

  For the first time since he'd entered the apartment, Erik lost his composure. His body grew rigid. “What about her?” He could barely hear his own voice over the sudden drumming of his blood in his ears.

  Margit took a step toward him. “Hakon, no!” Her voice came out in a ragged whisper.

  Ignoring her, Hakon turned to Erik. “Do you remember a note you wrote to Kayleigh back in that hospital in Ose?"

  Erik's hands clenched into fists. “Yes."

  "She never received it. Why not ask Margit why?"

  Slowly, Erik turned to her. He felt a red-hot curtain of rage falling before his eyes. “You didn't give it to her.” His voice was deceptively soft.

  Her face was sheet-white, her lips a slash of red where she'd bitten them. She didn't speak. There was no need. Her guilt was written all over her.

  For a blinding moment, Erik imagined wrapping his fingers into the silky strands of her golden-red hair, pulling at her scalp, exposing her elegant neck to the glittering sharpness of a hunting knife. Slicing into her flesh, spilling her warm blood much like his Viking ancestors would've done centuries before. He trembled with fury; hatred raged through his veins, poisoning.

  He took a step forward. She shrank back. But somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, he held onto his sanity. He moved past her to the bar where a glittering array of decanters stood filled with liquors of jeweled amber. In one violent movement, he swept them over the edge where they crashed to the hard-wood floor, splintering into fragments of glass and bleeding liquid. Erik stared down at the mess, his chest heaving as he fought to control himself. Margit, Bjorn and Hakon stood stone-still.

  Erik looked up, first at Margit, then at Bjorn. When he spoke, his voice was soft with contempt. “I loved her. But I don't expect either one of you to understand that."

  "Mummy, what's wrong?"

  Gunny stood at the door of the living room, rubbing his eyes sleepily. He yawned and looked over to see the broken liquor decanters. “Oh! Who made the mess?” His eyes caught Erik and he grinned. “Father!” On short stocky legs, he ran over to Erik and threw his arms around his knees. “Pick me up!"

  Erik's hands gently touched Gunny's gold-red curls. He bent over and scooped the little boy into his arms. Gunny hugged him tightly, snuggling against him. Tears welled in Erik's eyes as his arms tightened about him. Over his head, he gazed at Margit and Bjorn.

  "You've hurt me,” he said softly. “But my God, have you thought about what you've done to him?"

  For a long moment, he held the little boy close while the others stared at him, speechless. Heart aching, he turned his face into Gunny's sleep-warmed neck and breathed in his sweet scent. Then, with a challenging look at Margit and Bjorn, he turned and strode out of the room. When he reached Gunny's room, he settled the boy on his bed and sat on the edge next to him. For a long moment, he gazed down at Gunny's heart-shaped face, stroking his damp reddish-blond hair.

  "What's wrong, Father?” Gunny's saucer-like blue eyes stared back at him. “You told Mummy you were hurt. Is that why you're crying?"

  Erik blinked hard, his throat clogged with emotion. “Yes, Gunny,” he said, his voice a ragged whisper. “I am hurt, but it's inside where you can't see it. I'm hurt because I have to go away. I don't know for how long, but it won't be forever. I'll come back and visit you. That's a promise."

  Confusion clouded Gunny's eyes. “Is Mommy leaving, too?"

  Erik shook his head. “No, son. Your mother will always be with you. But I ... we won't be living together any more."

  "Why not?” He seemed only mildly curious.

  Erik closed his eyes. Christ, how to explain something like this to a four-year-old? Nothing to do but muddle through it. “It's just that ... sometimes adults find themselves growing apart from each other. And they realize they will be happier if they don't live together anymore. That's how it is with me and your mother."

  Gunny studied him solemnly. “You don't like Mummy any more?"

  "Oh, Gunny.” Erik stroked his head. “It's so much more complicated than that. I wish I knew the right words to make you understand."

  Gunny chewed his bottom lip, a question in his eyes. “Do you still like me?” he asked in a soft, vulnerble voice.

  That's when Erik lost it. He gathered the little boy into his arms and buried his face into his silky hair, tears streaming down his face. “Gunny, yes! I more than like you, I love you with all my heart. And that will never change. You've got to believe that, son.” Gunny clung to him, and for a long moment, Erik rocked the boy in his arms, struggling to compose himself. And suddenly it hit him. He could not, in good conscience, walk away from this little boy. Whatever happened, he vowed he would do whatever possible to stay in some capacity in Gunny's life. Even if it meant only occasional visits. And if Margit was cruel enough to object to that, he'd fight her. Take her to court if he had to. Gunny might not be the son of his flesh, but he would always be the son of his heart.

  * * * *

  "Unnskyld, Fru Aabel. He is asking for you."

  Blankly, Leigh looked up at the middle-aged nurse standing in the doorway to the living room. What had she said? Her brain refused to function these days. How long had it been since the night Knut had surrendered himself to his hospital bed? Her unrealistic hopes of a recovery had dwindled away in the days that followed. How many days? Fourteen? Twenty? A month?

  She'd finally accepted the reality. Knut was dying. But God, how long was it going to take? She couldn't remember the last time he'd been aware of her or the last time he'd spoken to her. It was just as he'd warned her when he'd told her of his mother. Inside that frail skeletal body, his heart still beat, still forced the cancer-ridden blood through tired veins, but the Knut she'd known was gone. What was left was only a spent shell.

  "Fru Aabel, did you hear me?"

  Leigh focused upon the nurse again. “I'm sorry. What did you say?” The poor woman! She was so confused. Not knowing which Mrs. Aabel was which. Sigurd was in and out so much it was entirely possible the nurse thought she was Knut's wife. Leigh had never volunteered the information that she and Knut had never actually married. What did it matter now, anyway? Her pain could be no deeper if she were his wife.

  "Herr Aabel is asking for you."

  The words finally sunk in. On unsteady legs, Leigh stood and moved toward the nurse. “Are you sure?” she whispered. In her heart, she'd believed he'd never awaken again.

  The nurse nodded. “You should hurry. I do not think he will be lucid for long."

  A soft light glowed on the nightstand next to Knut's bed. Leigh approached him slowly, her heart thudding. She was afraid. Afraid of the way he would look, the things he would say. But when she finally reached the aluminum rails at the bedside, she saw it was already too late. He'd lapsed back into unconsciousness. A long shuddering sigh escaped her as she stared down at the man who used to be Knut. The pallid skin on his face had stretched into a death-mask that molded to the brittle bones of his skull. Murky gray patches circled once laughing eyes that were now closed in comatose sleep. Purple-veined lines snaked over paper-thin eyelids and, at the corner of his dry caked lips, a thin stream of spittle trailed down his chin and onto the collar of his red-striped pajama top. Under the covers, a hard ball poked up from his mid-section, testimony to the chronic constipa
tion he suffered from the over-use of pain-killers. “Oh, Knut...” she said softly, and reached out to touch the bony hand that lay limply at his side.

  His eyes opened. It was the only part of Knut she really recognized. Those lovely gray-blue eyes. He tried to smile at her, but it was more a grimace. His hand tightened into a fist as a wave of agony twisted his face.

  Leigh bent over him. “Do you need another shot? I'll get the nurse."

  "No!” From somewhere, he gathered the strength to clasp her hand.

  "What is it, Knut?” Leigh cried out, near tears. “What can I do?"

  Tears welled in his eyes. He summoned a deep breath and his voice came out in a rasping plea. “Leigh, please ... help me."

  And she knew what he meant. No more shots or drugs. Just peace. He wanted her to give him peace. With those haunted eyes begging her, she said the only thing she could.

  "Yes, Knut. I will. I promise."

  Chapter 41

  Sigurd was the only one in the world that could help her with what she knew she had to do. But would she? It was after eleven o'clock p.m. and Sigurd was in with Knut now. She'd taken a leave of absence from her job at the hospital to share the nursing duties with Fru Flagstad. They'd worked out an arrangement for Sigurd to take the night shift so she could be home with Kristin during the day.

  Shortly after Knut's brief lucid period, the teenager had arrived to visit with him as she did every afternoon. When she discovered he'd come out of the coma for a short time, she was heartbroken to have missed it. In spite of her mother's loving support, Kristin was having a difficult time dealing with her father's impending death. She'd left in tears at nine o'clock. Sigurd had been with him ever since.

  Listlessly, Leigh got up from the sofa and moved into the kitchen to put on a pot of tea. Sigurd would be needing it soon. And she wouldn't be the only one. Caffeine wouldn't be a strong drug, not like aquavit or a good shot of whiskey, but maybe it would give her the courage she needed to say what she had to. But how? How could one say such a thing? That you wanted help with committing a crime. With ... say it, Leigh. Murder.