“Where’s she buried?” he said, at last. “Can you at least tell me that?”
Temeke thought of the upright stones at the ranch. From the sky they would have appeared as two elliptical shapes joined together like a Norse funeral ship. Burial places. Only there was nothing buried there.
Ole looked down at his hands, the cuffs and the chains. His eyes were moist, but not enough for tears. “I… I carried her to the barn, to the table.”
Temeke couldn’t listen to the foul things Ole did with that axe. He tuned his mind to a pair of round cheeks, a slightly crooked front tooth, two pigtails and a smile that made him feel like he was floating. A face on the cork board in his office, a face in his mind.
Nothing seemed to scare him anymore.
“I covered her body with a bag,” Ole murmured. “Tied her high up in the trees. This is where the great spirits are. The wolf spirits. I did it for them.”
Temeke realized her body would have been well hidden when the leaves were still on the trees. The smell of creosote and paint on the tree trunks would have deterred the dogs from sniffing any higher and nobody had seen fit to check again. Captain Fowler missed the evidence and he would likely receive a disciplinary letter or suspension.
The room began to spin and Temeke couldn’t breathe. A detective too emotional to control his feelings was like a doctor operating on his own child. It just wasn’t allowed.
“You can hate me all you want,” Ole murmured, “but I did what I was told to do.”
“Who told you?”
“Odin.”
“But you know he doesn’t exist. What did your mother tell you in those early days? Do you remember?”
Temeke saw the curling lip and eyes that flicked around the room. “I remember the day I strangled the cat. I was six. She hated me then. I could see it in her eyes.”
“Her cat?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you kill it?”
“To punish her.” Ole opened his mouth slightly, tongue pushed forward. “I saw her with the huntsman, saw her kissing him. I knew it was wrong. I told papa. That’s when it all started. She slapped me. Told me I was a liar. She locked me in the outhouse. I was so cold I thought I was going to die.”
“Who came to let you out?”
“Papa.”
“Do you know how long you were in there?”
“Two days.”
“He left soon after that, didn’t he? Your father.”
“The day Morgan died. The day I lost everything.”
“Why Morgan?” Temeke asked. “Why did Johannes Elgar kill Morgan?”
Ole stared down at his hands, voice breaking. “He should have killed me…”
Temeke heard the sob in that tormented voice, began to replay the scene in agonizing detail. A little blond boy streaking through the woods, laughing, chasing rabbits. The huntsman couldn’t possibly tell the twins apart. He wasn’t to know the boy he caught at the cabin that day had been Ole, not Morgan.
Temeke studied the flat gaze. “So you inherited the Bergenposten.”
“It gave me a future.”
“It gave you something to barter with. A carrot to dangle. Morgan Eriksen was an athlete, a well-known swimmer in his class. Got himself in the local newspapers. That’s how you found him. Same age, same build, same color hair. Same shaped face. Job done. Only Morgan was a sucker for money. Liked that lifestyle, didn’t he? Patti was a corker and all. Only, she fell for you, for your charisma. Until she found out what you really are.”
“She loved me,” Ole said. “The only one.”
“You took her by force.”
“I never forced her.”
“If the scars on her hands and feet are anything to go by, I’d say she was forced. And Morgan? How do you think he feels? Like a right prat I should imagine. You used him.” Temeke closed the file and stared at those dead eyes. “Did you really believe the blood from nine heads would resurrect your dead brother?”
“The mead of poetry.”
Temeke could almost taste the bile in his throat and he forced it down with a swallow. “And your mother? She died as many times as you strangled those girls. You won’t be seeing me again. But I’ll think of you on that last day. You’ll be lying on a bed in agony and I’ll be saluting your passing with a glass of whisky. And when you get to hell, they’ll burn you good and well just to make sure there’s nothing left.”
FORTY-FIVE
Temeke closed the door and stood in the corridor. He looked down at Jarvis half asleep in his chair. “Think you can handle him?”
Jarvis frowned. “He’s tied up, isn’t he?”
“That’s the problem. They had to take the cuffs off on account of the pain killers. You’ll give him a hand if he wants to take a leak?” Temeke permitted himself a brief smile of satisfaction. “Must be off. Can’t hang about.”
He walked down the corridor to a tall oblong window, took out his phone and dialed Serena. Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and try again… He listened to the intercept message before hanging up a second time. And when his phone did ring, it made him jump.
“Serena!” he was happy to hear her voice. “The case? Yes. We’ve got him. I tried to call you a few moments ago.”
She mumbled something about a new number, thought it was time. Temeke felt lightheaded, thoughts scrambling to understand. “I’d like to take you to Ruidoso for a few days. Just you and me. Would you like that?”
He paused when he heard the sobs, the rasp in her voice. It was a sixth sense, something he could smell on the wind, and he tried not to hear her words, tried not to feel the aching in his chest.
“Why?” he asked.
It was no use running home. She had withdrawn to a distant place, far beyond his reach now. It was hard for him to imagine the house without her, an empty closet, an empty bed.
“I know it’s hard for you to say these things. But not over the phone, love. Please not on the phone. We could meet. We could talk―”
She didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to hear another false promise. She was tired of the endless days waiting for him to come home, terrified he was lying face-down in a ditch like Luis. He had nearly died, hadn’t he?
“But he didn’t die, love. He’s awake, talking. He even gave me his car keys.”
That should have made her laugh, but instead there was a tremor to her voice, the sound of soft panting. Then she mentioned the weed, the smoking, the lying.
“Yes, I have lied to you. I’ve lied about the smoking because I’m an addict. I’m not perfect, Serena.”
She wanted him to stop, wanted him to love her enough to stop. Did he love her?
“Of course I love you,” he said. “You know I do. It’s agony for me. All of this.”
What was this thing about Becky? If he was lying about the smoking, then what else was he lying about?
“Oh, love, no. She’s a child.”
But there was talk in the department about women. They all gave her strange looks at parties, like she was the last to know.
“I wouldn’t dream―”
He was left with that infernal dialing tone and for a long time he didn’t move. He looked at his caller ID and saw the words Private, a message that told him she didn’t want to be found. A small intake of breath, a hardening of the stomach and he raged inwardly at his own stupidity. Too late, he realized. He should have seen the signs.
He stared out at a speckled wilderness regimented with green piñon trees and cone-shaped hills. He began to debate with himself whether to trace the number or leave her in peace. It wouldn’t be fair to run after her, he thought, seeing the remains of a white fir tree that lay embedded by the side of a hillock, bark calcified like the bones of some prehistoric animal. The relationship was dead. It had been dying for years.
There was one thing that gave him hope. Serena wouldn’t go far, not with Luis in the hospital. He pictured himself standing in the hospital lobby wearing a dark
suit and starched white shirt. He’d have his back to the front door, of course, so she wouldn’t see the flowers.
He pressed the heel of his hands into both eyes, determined not to descend into that black mass of misery. What good would it do?
“Sir?”
Malin hobbled toward him, hand nursing her hip. He ignored her open mouth and the torrent of questions she was obviously itching to ask. “Does it hurt?” he asked.
Her hand signaled a so-so reply, golden skin radiant as if age would never touch her. “Doctor said I’d be fine in a day or two. Have you seen the papers?”
Temeke shook his head. It must have been good if she was smiling.
“The headline read Two Albuquerque detectives hailed as heroes when they rescued a fourteen-year-old girl from the 9th Hour killer. We’ve already got six thousands likes. Seems our photo went viral.”
Temeke chuckled. He curled an arm around her waist. She was smaller than he expected, warmer too. He helped that strong, slender body to the parking lot, half-lifting her over the concrete parking blocks.
They found the Charger rammed between two trucks, cleaned and smelling of pine, judging by a small green tree that dangled from the rearview mirror. Malin eased herself into the passenger seat, face cringing with pain.
He started the car, keeping his eyes straight ahead, knowing she was savvy enough to have sensed a change in him. He was lonely. She must have sensed that.
“How’s Eriksen?” she asked.
“Grumpy. I doubt he’ll apologize in court. The jury will deliberate for less than three hours and give him the death penalty. No one will feel sorry for him. Except a few horny girls. He’ll get his fair share of fan mail.”
“How did he ever get into the United States?”
“Apparently, he boarded a fishing vessel at a port in Norway called Svelgen, gave the captain $40,000 in cash and kept him and his crew in beer for six weeks. He landed near Biddeford, Maine and stayed with a man called Mike Salthouse, a dab hand at forging driving licenses. He bought a truck and drove across land to California. Got residency there.”
“That easy?”
“Afraid so.”
“Morgan didn’t kill them then?”
“He’s an accessory.” Temeke blew out a lungful of hot air. “He’ll fry in California if I have anything to do with it.”
Malin nodded. “I want to understand. I want to know why.”
The question took him back to his rookie days in a finger snap. He’d asked his sergeant the very same question. “There’s nothing to understand. A killer is a killer, a creature of incredible appetite. He blends in so you would never know. Alone, he isolates himself from humanity and all the while he lives in a valium-filled trance, pretending he is more than he is. A conqueror. But they all have one thing in common. They’re unable to control their inner monster.”
Temeke knew how flippant it all sounded. He blamed himself for the way it came out, tumbling from his mouth like a gush of words he was too numb to feel.
“Why did Ole keep the heads?” she asked.
“Souvenirs… it serves to refuel the fantasy. He’ll waste away in a jail cell until he dies alone. Something every killer fears.”
Ten minutes later, Temeke pulled up in front of her apartment, powered down the window and let the car suck in the cold air. There were no clusters of swirling snowflakes now, just a glaze of sunlight on a bed of dried leaves.
Malin grimaced, until she dropped her gaze. “Will you keep me on, sir?”
Temeke lifted his chin, realizing he was looking at her with unrestrained approval. She was strangely beautiful in the harsh glare of sunlight. “You’re my partner, aren’t you? Oh, and just call me Temeke.”
She nodded and then smiled. He could smell her perfume now, stronger at the curve of her neck. He was painfully conscious that he had no right to touch her and he paused for a breathless second to look down at those large sympathetic eyes. “I’m proud of you,” he said.
Malin scraped one hand through her glossy, black hair and took a calming breath. “Want to come in?”
He swiveled his eyes toward the parking lot, feeling her straighten just as he had. He almost buckled on account of his loneliness and shook his head. “You better get some sleep, Marl. I better go home.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Originally from England, Claire is a world traveler and makes her home in New Mexico, USA. She began writing as a child and received school awards for English literature. A former medical and executive assistant, she has helped lead workshops and has spoken at various literary events across the Southwest. Her interest in archaeology has inspired and informed all her writing from historical fiction to thrillers, and she is the author of two ancient Egyptian novels, Chasing Pharaohs and The Fowler’s Snare.
She has published short stories and once ran a newspaper for two local businesses in Albuquerque. She has completed the second book in the Detective Temeke series, Night Eyes, in which she explores how even in the darkness of criminal depravity the light of faith is never entirely extinguished. She is currently working on the third novel.
To learn more about Claire, visit www.cmtstibbe.com.
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The 9th Hour (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 1) Page 27