“I was surprised I found them here and not in Houston. . . . You’re very lucky that they’re still around. And in overall good shape for folks in their mid-eighties.”
“I’d be glad to be in half as good health as they are when I get that age.”
“I understand Emma joined a cult.”
“What? . . . Did my mother . . . or father tell you that?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Just what cult are you talking about?”
“You know . . . that cult from America. . . . Maybe I shouldn’t have used that word. But it’s something I’ve been very curious about.”
“Matthias . . . I’ve also been very curious about something and yet I never asked you about it for years and years.”
“Go ahead.”
“As I remember . . . you faced nasty lawsuits . . . you prevailed in the lower courts and won again at the Supreme Court . . . until two justices mysteriously switched their votes and recalled their original opinion in your favor. . . . You lost a lot of money and swore you’d get even. . . . Right?”
“So far you’re right Sohlberg.”
“Well now . . . you can finally tell me . . .were you the anonymous tipster who led me to find all that corruption in the courts? . . . Did you do that to get even with those two crooked justices?”
“Harald why would you think that?”
“Answering a question with a question. Interesting. . . .”
“You too answered my cult question with a question.”
“So we’re even . . . at a stalemate.”
“A good old-fashioned deadlock. . . . Sometimes a deadlock is not a bad thing. It gives you time to think things over . . . figure things out.”
Sohlberg nodded and observed the koldtbord carefully. He shook his head when Fru Sohlberg pointed at the fårikål which he could never digest not even when he was a teenager. The heavily peppered cabbage-and-mutton stew was always served with boiled potatoes and it left him bloated for hours. Unlike most Norwegians he disliked meat including the ever-popular kjøttkaker or meatballs. In addition to the grilled salmon he desperately wanted his wife to bring him a heaping plate of Norway’s heavenly muiter or cloudberries. He also wanted a plate of lingonberries piled on top of the mouth-watering Jarlsberg cheese that he missed so badly when living abroad.
“Here,” said Matthias Otterstad who took pity on the famished Sohlberg and offered him his untouched plate.
Sohlberg snatched the plate full of flatbrød or paper-thin crisp rye bread topped with brunost or carmelized goat cheese. “Ah . . . heavenly.”
“Are you staying here in Norway for good this time?”
“No. Just for a conference. Then back to the United States.”
“It’s too bad,” said Matthias Otterstad with a melancholy look. “I wish you’d move back here.”
“Why? . . . Are you getting sentimental?”
“Maybe. But as you know almost everyone with brains leaves Norway for better jobs and opportunities. Look at your brother . . . a top-notch petroleum engineer who should be helping his own country find more oil. Instead of staying at Statoil he’s now helping British Petroleum find oil in America.”
“Well . . . they need all the help they can get since a lot of their oil has been spilling and floating on and polluting the Gulf of Mexico.”
Matthias Otterstad laughed. “Ja. Those crazy British idiots. Unbelievable. And not one of those rats have been prosecuted. Interesting how the enviro-radical Obama people turn a blind eye when it comes to one of their biggest corporate campaign donors. I wish I could buy off politicians that easily and thoroughly in Norway.”
“It would be too expensive.”
“Ja,” said Matthias Otterstad. “As the old saying goes . . . politicians don’t sell their integrity . . . they just rent it. And it figures that the rent for a politician would be much more expensive in good old Norway . . . as with everything else.”
“Norway’s gotten too expensive. Remember the good old days? . . . I still remember our law school days and going to your Nora’s apartment so I could get some food when I was low on funds . . . which was almost always.”
“Nora always had good food in her refrigerator. I think she earned more money in one month as a registered nurse than both of us together made during all of our years in law school.”
“Ja,” said Matthias Otterstad with a chuckle. “I think we both married our wives because they made so much more money as nurses than we did back then as lawyers. By the way . . . I’m glad to see you and Emma are so happy together. That’s getting to be a rarity nowadays.”
“Ja.”
“I think Sohlberg that you owe me a lot . . . because Nora and I introduced you to Emma. I’m so glad you married her . . . Nora and I were so worried about you those two years after Karoline died.”
“Thank you my friend,” said Sohlberg who quickly switched the topic. “But you owe me more for vouching for you and recommending you to your first clients when they asked for references.”
The men laughed.
~ ~ ~
Karl Haugen did not understand why his father no longer looked for him. Several times his father had come so close to him but his father had not seen or heard him. He now felt so far away from his father.
“Daddy!” he yelled.
Silence. As always. The silence sometimes overwhelmed him. Other times he felt happy when he heard the pretty music. He wondered how long he would be kept away from his father.
~ ~ ~
Sohlberg looked carefully at Matthias Otterstad and his immense estate and wondered how all this had happened for a man who had never practiced law. Shortly before graduating from law school Matthias Otterstad inherited $ 200,000 kroner or less than $ 40,000 U.S. dollars from an elderly aunt. Within a year he had quadrupled his inheritance by investing in out-of-favor stocks and commodities and currencies from his home.
“Ja ja my good friend the Sohlbergmeister. I owe you. And that’s why I’ve asked you many many times to come work with me. Thanks to your references and recommendations I soon had wealthy investors in Norway and abroad begging me to manage their money.”
Sohlberg nodded. He remembered the fawning newspaper and magazine Arcticles about his friend. Within four years of starting his investment fund Matthias Otterstad was managing large amounts of Other People’s Money for a hefty percentage of profits. Over a ten year period his take-home income added up to tens of millions of dollars and kroner and euros.
Matthias Otterstad moved closer to Sohlberg and said:
“Any regrets over not joining me in the business?”
“No. None.”
“Really?”
“No. I truly love what I do.”
“Why?”
“Because nothing excites me more than outsmarting the criminal mind. Nothing. I also love finding out how people really live their life in private . . . away from the public eye. Their choices fascinate me . . . how they make choices for the better or for the worse.”
“But a policeman’s pay is so little compared to what you could’ve earned in business.”
“Material possessions never attracted me.”
“How lucky. You know . . . it’s always a fight to own things and not let them own you. My five children all know that they will get very little when I die . . . just as I got very little when my father died. See those fancy Bénéteau boats floating out there?”
“Ja.”
“Those boats are not a rich man’s toys but rather the principal assets for three of my children who own small businesses that charter and rent the boats. No sir . . . my children will not to grow up to be weak degenerates like the royals of Europe or all those trust fund babies.”
“Good for you. I’ve seen so many disasters when parents spoil their children. You have no idea how many of my worst criminals became just that thanks to a father or mother who coddled and spoiled them and encouraged them to do whatever they felt like doing.”
“Ja! That’s why all of my children have to work if they want to eat.”
“So they get nothing?”
“Practically nothing. Just seed money to start a business or get an education or learn a trade. Almost everything will go to foundations and charities and think-tanks and political causes when Nora and I kick the bucket. More than anything else we want to make sure that Norwegians stay Norwegians . . . that Norway stays out of the European Union racket and stops all this social engineering nonsense of immigration and other insanities.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t moved to Switzerland to avoid taxes.”
“We did for a time after I sold the company to those idiots in New York. But we couldn’t stand being in Switzerland . . . it’s the money laundering capital of the world . . . after a while the stench of dirty money starts clinging to you. You know what I mean?”
“I think so.”
“Sooner or later you start smelling like a filthy pig from all those dirty billions of euros and dollars parked in Switzerland from drug bosses and corrupt Third World dictators. I’m sure most of Interpol’s targets have all or most of their money in Switzerland.”
Sohlberg smiled and switched the topic to avoid even the remotest chance of accidentally mentioning any Interpol investigation. “What luck of yours Matthias . . . or intelligence . . . in selling out your company before the market crashed.”
“You wouldn’t believe what. . . .”
Both men fell silent when other guests joined them. Fru Sohlberg and Fru Otterstad came back with plates of food and wine for the Otterstads and apple juice for the Sohlbergs.
~ ~ ~
He lost track of his wife at the gym. She kept flitting about from machine to machine and then chit-chatting here and there with all of her fake and extremely superficial gym friends. Of course he now knew all about her flirting in the gym and picking up men for dalliances when he was at work. He looked at her in her tight workout clothes and noticed that she was indeed no longer in as good physical condition as she had been when she was a body builder. Although she was no longer a Miss Frøken Charles Atlas or Miss Frøken Arnold Schwarzenegger he knew that she would probably put up a good fight if he tried to strangle or stab her. He had to avoid any combat with her. The trick would be to disable her and maybe even drug her beforehand. Or get her really drunk. She liked smoking cannabis two or three times a week and that might do the job along with some beers and tranquilizers.
He took a break from the strenuous exercise that the Jacob’s Ladder gave him. Of all the gym equipment the Jacob’s Ladder was his absolute favorite because of the punishing nature of that exercise beast.
Who was the genius who designed the Jacob’s Ladder exercise machine?
As he drank the Farris mineral water he realized that the Jacob’s Ladder exercise machine was nothing less than a perfect symbol for his life. In other words he was climbing a ladder and a marriage that went nowhere and the efforts were draining his energy and the ladder and the marriage would eventually exhaust him and ultimately prevail over him. He looked at other gym members on others ladders and the grueling workouts that they received as they climbed the endless procession of wood rails on the 40 degree slope.
Wasn’t there a Bible story about a Jacob’s ladder? Or was it the story about Jacob wrestling with God?
He tried to remember the exact context of the Bible story. Like almost all Norwegians he had grown up as a member of the government-sponsored Evangelical Lutheran Church of Norway. Like most children he had taken the mandatory Kristendomskunnskap or Christian theology courses given in public elementary schools until 2007. Like almost all Norwegians he celebrated religious Christian holidays like Easter and Christmas as well as Lutheran ceremonies for births and confirmations and weddings and funerals. And like most Norwegians he never went to church except for those holidays and events.
Jacobs’ ladder . . . what did the Bible say about that?
He went to the weight lifting section and began a workout with dumbbells. He then switched to work out with various hand grips in order to strengthen his hands and wrists in preparation for the happy day when he would kill her. Strangling her with his bare hands would be such a pleasure. First would come the sensual and exciting feel of squeezing the lovely flesh around her neck. Second he would have the luxury of looking deep into her eyes and watch her life flicker away with the ultimate satisfaction that the last image ever to appear in her retina would be that of him snuffing the life out of her. All of that would be the perfect climax following hours or days of torturing her. This is his plan. This is his obsession.
A well-built woman in her 30s approaches him and starts working out with the dumbbells. She soon turns to him and says:
“Hei . . . don’t those grips hurt your hands or wrists?”
He merely nods and realizes that he will have absolutely no problems in finding a suitable replacement for his wife within days or weeks of her death. He will probably be able to hook up with some woman within hours of the funeral. From what he’s heard women start hitting on widower’s immediately in a bid to bed them. Men of course do the same on widows. The vultures circle and move in for their prey. They take advantage of the widow’s or widower’s grief and overwhelming desire for their loved one. He looks forward to the feeding frenzy over the grieving survivor. He will be no different than a piece of meat that sharks have smelled and tasted in the water. Without a reasonable doubt he believes that he could move some Hot Babe into his house to console him within days of his wife’s tragic death.
Planning. The key is in the planning. He who plans well reaps the rewards.
Had not his entire life proved to him that he reaped great rewards if he planned thoroughly and well in advance?
His careful planning for his education and for his career had superbly rewarded him. Only when he got careless did he suffer the consequences as had happened with his wife. Therefore she must die not anytime soon but rather a year or so from now. And it must look like an accident
How can you torture and kill someone while making it look like an accident?
He could not afford to attract attention from the police. No sir.
His brain started working on all the calculations and permutations.
Then it hit him.
As a child he had read and heard about Jacob’s ladder from the Old Testament Book of Genesis. That’s it.
He strolled to the locker room and got his Nokia cell phone out of his jacket. He had the latest smartphone from the giant Finnish telecom company. The phone could surf the web and find anything on the Internet.
He ran the search for “Jacob’s ladder” on Google. His eyes widened as he read the NASB translation of Genesis 28:10-17 which tells of:
Jacob traveling and sleeping outdoors at night with a rock for a pillow. He dreams “and behold, a ladder was set on the earth with its top reaching to heaven; and behold, the angels of God were ascending and descending on it.”
Then God tells Jacob that he will be rewarded with land and children and that “Behold, I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.”
His eyes welled up with tears especially when he read further on that Jacob wakes up from the dream and says:
“Surely the LORD is in this place, and I did not know it.”
His hands shake when he reads the last verse:
“He was afraid and said, ‘How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.’”
If only he could see the gate of heaven. If only he could get to the gate of heaven. But he could not because it was far too late for that. The dirty deeds were done and thanks to all of her deceptions she had stolen that opportunity from him forever. He would never be blessed like Jacob. No she had taken that from him and to make matters worse she was without a doubt surely going to expose him with his little secret about the molestations. So h
e simply had to kill her. She had blocked him from ever seeing and reaching the gate of heaven.
Did not the Old Testament law of “an eye for an eye” call for her death?
No amount of forgiveness would solve his problem.
Only her death would make things right and even and just.
The minutes slipped away while he was lost in thought. He wept silently and turned away so that no one could see him in the locker room.
Ja. I could be like Jacob and see the gate of heaven . . . except for her curse.
Death on Pilot Hill (An Inspector Harald Sohlberg Mystery) Page 5