Death Angels (39 page)

Bergenhem stood outside the door. It was lunacy to play the lonesome hero like this. He saw a finger on the bell but it wasn’t his. He pressed again.

Bolger raised his eyebrows when he opened the door. He was wearing a terrycloth robe. “Hi, Lars.”

“Hi.”

“It’s a bit late, isn’t it?”

“I’d like to come in for a minute.”

“Can’t we talk tomorrow?”

“Preferably now.”

Bolger moved out of the way and Bergenhem stepped inside.

“You can leave your jacket there.” Bolger nodded at a splintery chair under a mirror. “Do you want some coffee or tea?”

“No, thanks.”

“This way,” Bolger said, leading him through the short hallway. “Have a seat.” He pointed to an armchair and sat down across from it on the other side of a glass table.

Bergenhem looked around the room but couldn’t take it in. You can get up and leave, he told himself, and say that Martina is about to go into labor.

“You had something to tell me,” Bolger said.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“You’ve got something on your mind, right?”

Bergenhem searched for the right words. He had just found them when Bolger went on. “You’ve been talking to that stripper, I assume. She says I’m a shady character. I’m surprised you didn’t come by earlier and ask me about her accusations.”

“I came now.”

“Am I right?”

“I have a couple of questions.”

“You ring my bell in the middle of the night just to ask a couple of questions?” Bolger said. “You think you’re onto something, I can tell it from your face. You couldn’t wait until morning.”

“We talked to a witness.”

“We? You mean the stripper passed on some juicy gossip.”

“I need a little help from you.”

“It’s too late to switch tactics.”

“What?”

“You didn’t come here to ask for my help. You came to point the finger at me.”

“No.”

“I’ve done all I could for you, you snotty-nosed brat. I’ve been covering for you while you chase that crazy stripper. Don’t you think I know what you’re up to? You’re not a detective. You’re a baby. She says something about me and the first thing you do is come running here. Erik’s going to get an earful about your nighttime adventures.”

“I haven’t talked to her about you.”

Bolger sat still in the glare of a lamp, blocking the light every time he moved his head.

He looks like he has a halo, Bergenhem thought. “You’re the one who did it,” he said.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I wasn’t completely sure before, but I am now.”

“Then where’s the SWAT team?”

“You motherfucker.”

Bolger laughed. His robe parted and the hair of his chest gleamed in the semidarkness. “You’re too much, pal.”

“You murdered those kids. I don’t know why you did it, but I’m going to find out.”

“Did you shoot up with that junkie chick of yours or are you just drunk?”

“Will you come with me?”

“What?”

“I want you to come with me. You’re under suspi—”

Bolger was on his feet. “If you leave now, we can pretend this little incident never happened.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then I’ll call Erik.”

“I’ll call him.”

“Go ahead. You’ve got your cell with you, don’t you?”

“No,” Bergenhem said, standing up. He spotted a phone on a crescent-shaped desk next to the window. He made his way between the armchair and the table. Bolger stepped in front of him as he was about to pass. They were the same height. Bergenhem looked Bolger in the eye.

“I’ll call,” Bolger said.

“Get out of my way,” Bergenhem said, raising a hand, but Bolger lunged at him, and Bergenhem staggered backward. Recovering his balance, he started toward Bolger again.

“Come on,” Bolger said, jabbing at Bergenhem’s shoulder.

Bergenhem lost his footing. His legs buckled and the back of his head struck the edge of the table with a blow that sounded like iron against iron. The glass didn’t break. He looked as if he were hovering in the air with his head pinned to the table, his eyeballs rolling as he slid to the floor. A twitch snaked its way from his head to his legs and back again.

Bolger heard sounds coming from Bergenhem’s mouth and throat. Leaning over, he heard them again, a groan that seemed detached from the injured man beneath him.

Bergenhem appeared to be unconscious, but then he opened his eyes. Bolger couldn’t tell whether they saw anything. Then they closed again. The horrible sounds resumed.

Bolger hadn’t asked for trouble, hadn’t invited Bergenhem to come. He raised Bergenhem’s head and placed his forearm on the throat that was making the hideous noise. Shifting his weight, he pressed down, felt Bergenhem’s body lurch sideways and pressed even harder.

After a while, the moans died out. But Bergenhem’s eyes were open and continued to move in their eerie way.

Bolger stood and pulled on Bergenhem’s legs. They were still twitching. Bolger picked him up.

He had never had the slightest interest in Bergenhem or what he was up to. Bergenhem meant nothing to him.

Bolger carried him out to the stairway as if they were the only people left in the world.

WINTER WAS SCALING A CLIFF. A STEREO SPEAKER JUTTED OUT
at the top. “What’s New” was playing. Coltrane peered down over the cliff, took the mouthpiece from his lips, lit a Gitanes cigarette and shouted to Winter
What’s New, What’s New, What’s New
, and the cell phone attached to his tenor sax jangled against its straight neck. A tenor sax is supposed to be bent, Winter thought. It’s soprano saxes that are straight. He was just about to say so aloud, but now Macdonald was holding the phone instead and screaming,
Answer you snob, answer before the kid hangs up
. Winter tried to take the phone but it was stuck to the instrument. The phone rang and rang.

He woke up and the phone on his nightstand was ringing. It stopped and the cell phone on the desk took over. He barreled out of bed and grabbed it but nobody was there. The landline started all over again. Darting back, he stubbed his big toe on the leg of the bed. The pain surged through his body after a numb second. “Hello?” he said. His eyes were watering from the pain. He reached for his toe but it rebuffed his hand. He was sure he had broken it.

“Is this Erik? Erik Winter?”

She sounded more or less like he felt, a cold gust of agony through the receiver. Out of his other ear, he heard Coltrane’s music stuck on repeat in the living room. It wasn’t the first time he had fallen asleep before turning everything off and getting ready for bed.

The pain in his toe, now his whole foot, had gone from red hot to a dull, malevolent throb. He concentrated on the voice at the other end of the line. “Yes, this is Winter.”

“I’m sorry if I woke you. This is Martina Bergenhem.”

They had met several times. Winter liked her. She possessed a calm maturity he hoped would rub off on her husband. “Hi, Martina.”

Winter leaned over the nightstand and turned on the lamp. He blinked a couple of times to get used to the light. He held up his watch. It was cold in his palm. The hands pointed to four o’clock.

“I can’t get hold of Lars.”

“What did you say?”

“He hasn’t come home tonight and I have to go . . .”

Winter heard her start to cry—or cry some more.

“I have to go to the hospital.”

“Hasn’t he called?” It was one of those meaningless questions. But maybe they had to be asked anyway.

“No, I thought he was out on some . . .”

“I don’t know,” Winter said. “But it’s certainly possible.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, Martina, but I’ll find out as fast as I humanly can.”

“I’m worried about him.”

My God, Winter thought. “Are you all alone?”

“Yes. I called my mom but she lives in Stockholm.”

She might as well have said the Caribbean, he thought.

“I just called a taxi,” she said.

“Is there a neighbor or somebody else nearby who can help you?”

“I didn’t want to bother . . .”

“I’ll send someone to pick you up.”

“But the taxi . . .”

“Can you hold on a minute, Martina?”

“What?”

“Don’t hang up, I just want to make a quick call on the other line.” He put the phone down, took a step to the side and shouted from the pain. Hopping over to the desk, he picked up the cell phone and made his call. When he was done, he returned and sat back down on the bed, his injured foot dangling over the edge. “Martina?”

“Yes?”

“Somebody will be there within ten minutes to pick you up and take you to Sahlgrenska Hospital. You can lie down in the car if necessary. I asked a friend to go along and assist you. Her name is Angela and she’s a doctor. She’ll be in the car when it gets to your house.”

“I . . .”

“Get ready, and they’ll be there before you know it. Meanwhile I’ll make sure that Lars goes directly to the hospital. I’ll look for him as soon as we hang up.”

Winter sat still. He carefully flexed his ankle and felt the toe. It was tender but there wasn’t any swelling. Maybe it wasn’t broken after all. It hardly mattered one way or the other—you didn’t put a splint on a toe.

He’d wear a pair of clogs if necessary.

He limped to the bathroom, intimations of disaster coursing through his body.

He was examining his toe under the lightbulb when the phone rang again. He hobbled back. A woman introduced herself as Marianne Johnsén. Winter listened.

Bergenhem was found at eight o’clock in the morning. Unable to resist any longer, the proud owner of a new sailboat had driven down to the Tångudden Road Marina to feast his eyes on it before the season started.

Bergenhem was sitting straight up, wedged between two rocks at Hästevik Bay. The gulls were more raucous than usual at this time of day. The boat owner had seen the legs sticking out and forgotten his plans. The patrol officer responding to the alarm had recognized Bergenhem.

Winter had dragged his sore toe behind him over the meadow and down into the crevices. He stood next to the spot where Bergenhem had been, as if offering his protection. The meaning of life could have become a moot question for you, Lars—for me too, he thought.

The morning drifted blue and white over Älvsborgsfjorden Bay, the light lucid as if it had been scrubbed clean. Stena Line ferried people to Denmark as though nothing had happened. The Stora Billingen fields would be bursting with life in less than a month. As though nothing had happened, Winter repeated to himself. The bus makes its scheduled stops, passengers get on and off. Tonight people will sit down at the dinner table as always and gather in the living room with their eyes glued to the television.

“It’s my fault,” he said. “Tell me that it’s my fault.”