The Bucket List

by Peter Mohlin

  She smiled at him again. It was forced this time.

  “I’m worried about you,” she said.

  “What do you mean, worried?”

  “That you won’t cope. You remember what it was like in the early years. I don’t want to go back there. For your sake and ours. Nothing has really changed. She’s gone from our lives and is never coming back. The police finding her is just confirmation of what we already knew.”

  “So seeing the remains of our daughter on a gurney means nothing to you?”

  “You know it does. It was as hard for me as it was for you.”

  Heimer felt the taste of the chamomile growing bitter in his mouth. The fact that anyone could drink this dishwater was beyond comprehension. He got up, took his cup, and poured it down the kitchen sink.

  “Please, don’t be like this. Come back so that we can talk about it.”

  His wife’s voice from the sofa was harsh in his ears. She’d cried some tears on his shoulder and now it was done. He had been an idiot—imagining things between them might be different. Instead, he was back at that point in their relationship it seemed impossible to move past. He just had to accept it. He would sink in the depths without Sissela—he knew that—which meant he had to live within the boundaries she set for him. What was visible on the outside belonged to her, but what was on the inside was his own. She would never be able to take that from him.

  He poured a glass of cold water and returned to the sofa.

  “Sorry,” he said mildly. “I didn’t need to say that. I know we have to move on and make the best of our life together. It’s what Emelie would have wanted. But you have to give me some time.”

  Sissela looked at him with new warmth.

  “It’s me who should be asking for forgiveness. We’ve just experienced something very disorientating and it wasn’t my intention to make you feel like I was jumping down your throat. It’s just that I don’t want you to lose your way again.”

  Her lips felt soft when she kissed his cheek. He moved closer and asked her to lift up her hair.

  “I’ll help you take that off,” he said.

  Sissela leaned forward and let him release her from the burden of Emelie’s silver heart.

  29

  When John woke up, he sat on the edge of the bed for several minutes, staring out the window. The night had been the same eternal flux in and out of sleep with only the noise of tractor-trailers on the adjacent highway to keep him company.

  Almost a week had passed since he’d met Erina Kabashi at the Thai massage parlor. On several occasions, he’d been about to call or text her, but he stopped himself. If he pushed her for information about the investigation, there was a risk she’d lose patience with him.

  There had been nothing from the police station either. Neither Primer nor any of his colleagues had contacted him. Of course, they were busy questioning Billy, but John guessed that was only half the explanation. The situation had begun to smell of scandal, which meant they needed to distance themselves from the person at the center of it.

  Sooner or later, he’d hear from them. If the police authority decided to air its dirty laundry in public then an internal investigation awaited—followed by dismissal and maybe even corruption charges. The witness protection program would wash its hands of him, and John’s identity would be exposed. He’d become an easy target for Ganiru’s hired killers.

  At the same time, there were powerful forces pulling in a different direction. John’s relationship with the Bureau had already been frosty when he left Baltimore. But the fact remained that the conviction of Ganiru and his men was a feather in the FBI’s cap. It wouldn’t look good if the Bureau just sat by and watched as the life of their star witness was put in danger. How easy would it be to recruit new undercover agents after that?

  In a tug of war like that he thought he knew who would win. It seemed likely that they’d keep the story quiet and John would be offered a discreet exit through the back door, but he couldn’t be completely certain.

  The frustration at being unable to influence the course of events seared through his entire body and he missed Trevor again. In situations like this, his friend was the only one he could share his thoughts with. After the first, brief email he’d sent from the pub at Bryggudden, it became easier to find the words. They’d written to each other several times since then.

  He lay in bed with the laptop propped up on his bent legs and logged in to the encrypted email service to see whether Trevor had been in touch. There was a new message in the inbox with the subject line “Am I imagining things?”

  Hello eager beaver!

  Hope you’re getting settled and that the ladies are all over you, you being such a cool dude and that (well sometimes).

  John could almost hear his friend’s rumbling laughter and realized that the corners of his mouth had involuntarily curved upward. Trevor’s sense of humor was infectious even by email. But the subject line suggested that his friend was worried about something and it didn’t take long to find out what.

  Look … I think I’m losing it. Everything gives me the creeps. There’s been a car on the street outside my house for a week. It’s not there when I get home at night, but then it’s back there every morning. Probably just my imagination … if it was them they wouldn’t stay in the car would they? I’m sleeping badly even though I’m dog tired. Just imagine. ME—sleeping badly even though all I’ve done for fifty years is sleep! When I go to the bar I’ve started taking back streets. I’ve found this totally cool place, by the way. Wish you could try their Caipirinhas—they’re the best I’ve ever had.

  I think I need to think less.

  Take care. T.

  John sat up, the computer still open on his lap. Trevor was probably right—his friend was seeing things. It was only a few days since John had let fear get the better of him in the tattoo parlor.

  He began to write about his own paranoia and what it had done to him. The sentences almost wrote themselves. He just wanted to keep writing—about the colleague who had uncovered his identity, the body he had found in the woods, and the suspicions against Billy.

  John could picture his brother in the interview room. Sulky, his arms crossed, as if he didn’t care about any of it. If the lawyer didn’t manage to get him to change his account, the question of how his semen had ended up next to Emelie’s blood would remain unanswered—and Billy would probably be convicted of murder, or in the best case manslaughter.

  He wanted to tell Trevor all of that—but he didn’t. It would be impossible to discuss the investigation without his friend figuring out where John was. And that would be a violation of their unspoken agreement never to reveal such information to each other.

  Instead, he read what he’d written about the figments of his own imagination at Awesome Ink. He deleted a couple of words to ensure that his email didn’t include any geographic markers and then hit send.

  Forty-five minutes later when John stepped into the lobby, he was wearing one of the two wool jackets that he had ordered from a tailor on Mulberry Street in Little Italy. The day was unlikely to include any meetings or other events where his appearance mattered. But becoming careless with his clothes would be a step in the wrong direction. It was evidence of a lack of self-respect—and who knew where that might end? Maybe he would look in the mirror one day and realize he looked like his coworkers at the police station—mustard stains on his trousers and faded polo shirts.

  Rain pattered onto the roof above the entrance and there was a cold draft when the automatic doors slid open to let out a loud conference delegation. The bus waiting for them outside had its engine running. Diesel fumes wafted into reception, mixing with aftershave and the smell of fresh bacon.

  John headed to breakfast. He filled his plate with protein in all its forms and complemented this with freshly pressed juice and black coffee. The last guest had left a newspaper on the table. John opened it and froze when he saw the headline on the inside page.

 
MISSING ACKWE DAUGHTER’S BODY FOUND—30-YEAR-OLD MAN REARRESTED

  It was hardly a surprise to see the story. There was a limit to how long Primer and the police could keep Billy’s arrest off the front pages. It still felt unpleasant. He looked around before turning to the relevant page—as if it were a secret document he was going to read, rather than the country’s biggest paper.

  The story was dominated by a photo of Emelie Bjurwall’s face. She looked serious—as if she knew the article was about her own death. In the text, it said the cold cases team was in the process of finally solving the crime. The girl’s parents and loved ones would at last have closure, and the perpetrator—as the reporter unhesitatingly chose to describe his brother, despite the lack of a conviction—would face punishment.

  The newspaper had refrained from publishing the name, but it wouldn’t be hard for readers in Värmland to figure out who the police had arrested. Everyone in the area knew that Billy Nerman had been the prime suspect ten years ago and that it was the lack of a body that had prevented charges being laid.

  The article said nothing about Fredrik Adamsson or how the police had found out where the girl was buried. However, Bernt Primer was quoted several times and emerged as the hero who had steered this challenging investigation into port. John was grateful for that and hoped he could stay out of the eyes of the media in the future too. He had a strained relationship with the front pages of the papers. Each and every day he was scared that one of them might proclaim the truth about his two identities: Swedish FBI agent investigated own brother suspected of AckWe murder in Värmland.

  The only thing he could do to minimize the risk of such a story was to limit the number of people who knew his true identity. Each name that got added to that list increased the likelihood of gossip spreading at the police station and then on to the newsrooms.

  John’s breakfast was disturbed by the driver outside revving the engine. All the conference delegates had gotten on the bus. From the table, he watched it pull away with a shudder from the hotel entrance, making way for another, rather smaller vehicle. It was a yellow minibus with the words Ring and Ride on the side. Thankfully this driver was considerate enough to turn off the engine to stop fumes from drifting into the hotel.

  John looked around at the guests murmuring in the breakfast room. Several of them had copies of the newspaper open. The story about Emelie Bjurwall was front-page news and would remain so for several days. Readers would think they knew more about the case than they really did. They would gape, then chew and swallow the story of Billy Nerman as a selfish rapist and murderer without caring about any doubts or nuances. In the world of the newspapers, reality was black and white—the printing presses didn’t deal in shades of gray.

  From the entrance he heard a new racket. He turned his head and looked toward the minibus. A woman in a wheelchair was shouting at the driver, who was apparently using the ramp in a way she didn’t appreciate.

  John shook his head and shoveled scrambled eggs onto his fork. What was wrong with people—why couldn’t they talk instead of shout? He pushed away the plate and continued reading.

  “So this is where you’re hiding away, you damn coward!”

  The voice from the far side of the room cut through the air and all the guests turned around. The woman in the wheelchair had come into the dining room and stopped by the welcome desk. Her face was partially concealed by strands of dark brown hair. Her right arm had slipped off her knee and was hanging loosely toward the floor.

  The guests curiously tried to locate who the malice was directed at. John froze when he realized it was him she was talking to. The glances from the couple next to him told their own story. The situation couldn’t be rescued. He was naked in the spotlight and he had to say something.

  “John! I’m talking to you! Surely you can look your mother in the eyes?”

  He got up so quickly his chair tipped over. On his way between the tables, he happened to knock into a little girl balancing a bowl of cereal in her hand. The sound of the bowl crashing to the floor echoed through the room.

  He was angry now—really angry.

  Once he reached his mother, he turned her wheelchair around and wheeled her into the lobby. Both elevators were on the third floor, so instead of calling them he wheeled her on down the corridor toward the spa.

  “What the hell are you up to?” he hissed, speeding up.

  “John, I—”

  “Quiet!”

  A cleaner wearing the hotel’s collarless gray uniform approached them pushing a cart. The corridor was too narrow for the two vehicles to pass so John opened the first door he could and pushed the chair inside.

  It was a small changing room with ribbed wooden benches and two showers. The smell of chlorine and essential oils was very strong on the warm, moist air. His mother was breathing heavily as John shut the door. He sat down on one of the benches and turned the chair around so he could look his mother in the eye.

  “Have you completely lost your mind? I thought I was more than clear when I explained my situation to you. Didn’t you understand what I was saying? Do you think there’s one single person out there who didn’t hear you?”

  He fell silent.

  Her face had gone an angry shade of red and her eyes were wide open, as if they were about to pop out of her head. The sound of the subsequent coughing fit bounced off the walls of the white-tiled room. The wild ride had been too much for her lungs—smoked to pieces as they were. It was painful to see her gasping for breath, large globs of thick mucus dripping out of her drooping mouth.

  John reached for a tissue from a dispenser on the wall and passed it to her. He wondered what on earth they did in Swedish rest homes. His mother’s hair was white with dandruff and very greasy—it couldn’t have been washed for weeks. Her light gray tracksuit bottoms were stained all over the thighs, offering a map of recent meals. At the same time, he instinctively understood that the nurses caring for her were picking their battles.

  “Shame on you,” she croaked, as she threw the mucky tissue to the floor. “Billy is your damn brother.”

  “Yes, he’s my brother. My half brother,” John replied.

  “Half or whole, what the hell does it matter? He’s your little brother and you have no idea what the poor kid has gone through. But it’s just as I thought—you don’t give a shit about him, just like you’ve never given a shit about us.”

  She was back there again, John thought to himself. Little Billy—so small and fragile and in need of protection at any cost, regardless of his behavior or the trouble he caused.

  “I do give a shit about him,” he sighed.

  “You do? You promised to help. You sat by my bedside, held my hand, and promised he wouldn’t have to go through this again.”

  “No, Mom. I didn’t promise that.”

  “Yes, you did!” she screamed.

  There was a rattling in her windpipe and she had to straighten up to take in more oxygen.

  “I promised to make sure the investigation was done properly. That Billy would be treated fairly. But if he did it, then I have no intention …”

  “So, you’re happy now?” she interrupted him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you must be happy now that you’ve managed to dig up that shameless upper-class whore and make your own brother a candidate for murder.”

  She exaggerated her emphasis on the final words and stared at him, her mouth open.

  John paused.

  “How do you know it was me who found her?”

  His mother snorted, so that saliva dripped from her lower lip, making her dry chin shiny.

  “Because Billy called me after you’d been there. He was just crying. He didn’t understand anything. Even though he’s not heard a word from you all these years, he’s always looked up to you and your father. And now that you’ve finally come back here, the first thing you do is knock his legs out from under him.”

  John felt the sweat dripping down
his back. It wouldn’t be long until his shirt was soaked through. It was as if the walls were closing in by the second, and even he was struggling to breathe in the moist warmth.

  “Please, Mom. Don’t you see why things have ended up the way they have?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Can’t you see why Billy is where he is? Why everything has gone to hell?”

  “Because you came home and made him a suspect again,” she said, with what was probably the closest she could get to a grimace with her paralyzed face.

  “This has nothing to do with me. It’s about Billy … and you.”

  “About me?”

  John saw his mother’s eyes narrow. Maybe he ought to stop talking, but he couldn’t.

  “You’re doing it again … over and over. And now you want me to do the same thing.”

  “Do what?”

  “You’re protecting him.”

  “He’s my son!”

  “But he’s also a grown man who has to take responsibility for his actions. That rape that Billy was mixed up in …”

  “Rape?” his mother hissed.

  “Yes, the rape he was reported for, not long before Emelie Bjurwall disappeared.”

  “That wasn’t rape—that girl had …”

  “That girl was sleeping,” John interrupted her. “And Billy had sex with her without her consent. It was rape and you damn well know it. But instead of letting him take responsibility, you told him to lie to the police and say that the girl had been up for it. And then you got his buddies to give false testimony. Isn’t that what happened?”

  “It’s sad to see,” his mother continued.

  Her voice was calmer now, but full of disgust.

  “What?”

  “That you’re the exact likeness of your father. A family has to stick together but neither of you seems to get that. So, it’s just as well that you leave. Do what he did—to hell with all of it, just leave us here.”

  “You seem to have completely forgotten that it was you who got pregnant by another man.”

  His mother stared at him, her eyes red-rimmed. But before she had time to say anything, the door to the pool opened and a man in a bathrobe, fresh from his swim, stepped into the changing room.