Dreamless (18 page)

“Shut up, you stupid bastard!”

He wiped off the counter and put away the glasses that were still intact. Then he went over to her and leaned down.

“You don’t mean that.”

Now she looked up at him. “I know. I’m sorry,” she told him.

Then he took her hand and helped her up. She put her arms around him and pulled him close. For a few minutes they stood there like a couple of teenagers at a dance. Her tears slowly seeped into his shirt at the shoulder.

“Let’s call the police,” he said. “You’re right. Maybe somebody was outside.”

Then the tune started up again.

At first she didn’t know what it was. It was so sad that it could have been part of her own thoughts. Then she realized that it was coming from outdoors.

“Did you close the door when you came in?” she said, suddenly noticing the icy draft.

“I heard you crying,” he said. “I must have forgotten.”

Together they went out to the front hall. Through the open door they saw the figure of a man in the dark amidst the swirling snow. This time they both saw him. There was no longer any doubt.

Elise watched as her husband opened the wardrobe in the hallway. That was where he kept his guns. The figure outside must have seen them, but he just stood there, motionless. The melody was just as unhurried as before, but much clearer this time, and closer. It was definitely coming from a music box. The notes sounded metallic and pure. Now Elise saw her husband open the gun cabinet and take out his shotgun. It’s not locked, she thought. The shotgun’s easily accessible. He must have believed me after all.

Now she saw him dash for the door, holding the gun in his hand. After that, everything was a blur. She fell to the floor; still conscious but too dizzy to get up, she lay there listening. Ivar bellowed. Then she heard the sound of running footsteps that vanished into the night.

*   *   *

Ivar Edvardsen had hunted small game ever since he was a teenager, but he’d never gone after larger animals. He couldn’t stand the thought of all the blood, the big carcasses dropping to the ground. He’d never imagined he would ever aim his shotgun at a human being. As he ran out to the driveway, he told himself that the last thing he wanted to do was kill the man who was probably holding his daughter captive somewhere. He was struck by how swiftly he’d come to this conclusion. Half an hour ago, he’d still wanted to believe that his daughter had simply run away from home, and that her disappearance had nothing to do with the murder at Kuhaugen. But all it took was for him to hear that tune from the music box for any doubts to vanish. Elise had been right all along. This man had her. The monster had come to their door, and somewhere he was holding their daughter prisoner. Ivar felt like shooting him dead, but he couldn’t.

By now he was out on Markvegen. There he stopped and looked around. The street was very quiet. He saw no one. He paused, noticing the vapor coming from his mouth, as he pondered what to do next. They had both seen him. They were not imagining things.

All of a sudden the man was standing right in front of him. He rose up from behind a parked car like a petrified shadow, only five yards away. Startled, Ivar took a step back, instinctively putting his finger on the trigger.

Aware that Ivar was scared, the shadow took a step closer, then another. At that moment Ivar stopped thinking. He wanted to turn on his heel and run back to the house. Call the police. But before he managed to go anywhere, he slipped and fell to his knees. The gun went off as he tried to scramble to his feet. He was hardly aware that he’d squeezed the trigger.

The man standing in front of him cried out, then turned and limped away quickly, snarling furiously.

What have I done? thought Ivar Edvardsen as he crouched on the ground, watching the man leave. Now I’ve wounded him. I’ve wounded the monster.

Then he caught sight of the music box in the snow.

*   *   *

For a few seconds Elise was completely out of it. When she opened her eyes again, she wasn’t quite sure where she was. What happened? Was she dreaming?

Then he was standing over her.

Her husband held the shotgun in one hand. In the other he had a blue heart-shaped music box with a tiny figure on the lid. She stared at it in disbelief.

“Is that the one we heard?” she asked.

After setting the music box on the floor, he squatted down next to her and slipped his hand under her head to help her sit up.

“I had no idea it was loaded. I must have left a shell in the chamber.”

“That’s so unlike you,” she said.

“Let’s just hope I didn’t kill him.”

“Let’s hope you didn’t.” She sat up straight, finally feeling clearheaded. For the first time since last night, they were in agreement.

“He took her, didn’t he? It was him, wasn’t it?” he asked.

“And that’s why we have to hope that he survives,” she said. “But that’s the only reason.”

He nodded and she saw tears trickling down her husband’s cheeks. She had been more prepared for this turn of events than he was. And that was why she was the one who got up to make the call.

*   *   *

She was no longer in any doubt. Those were bloodstains on the floor and walls. The realization had completely paralyzed her at first, but then, oddly enough, it had made her more determined than ever.

She moved along the wall. She’d been doing this for several hours now. She hadn’t heard any sounds in the house for a long time, so she thought he must have gone out. If she hurried, she might be able to get her hands free before he came back. She could feel the rope very slowly fraying and getting looser around her wrists. Finally it pulled apart with a faint ripping sound. At the same moment she felt as if a tight, invisible rope was also released from around her chest. She pulled her hands out of the rope and took several deep breaths, then sank to the floor. She could feel how tired her thighs and hips felt. She placed her hand on her abdomen for the first time since she’d been tied up.

“Are you there?” she whispered.

The rope had been wrapped three times around her wrists, so now that it was off, she had a piece of rope that was more than a foot and a half long. She dropped it to the floor. Then she began untying her feet.

When she was free, she stood up and stretched, running her hand over her belly one last time. She needed to act before he came home. She had already decided what to do. She knew the door was locked, and that it would take too long to kick it open, even if she had enough strength to manage it. That meant she would have to leave her dog behind. The window was her best chance. The police could come back to get Bismarck. If he was still alive.

She went over and loosened the hasps, but when she tried to open the window, it refused to budge. When she studied the frame, she saw the nail heads. She stripped off her sweater, wrapped it around her right hand, made a fist, and slammed it against the pane. The newspaper covering the window tore apart and the glass underneath shattered, but she didn’t hear any shards fall outside, as she’d expected.

It took a few seconds before she realized why. Behind the torn newspaper and broken window she saw snow. A big, heavy layer of snow just outside the basement window. That explained why it had been so dark whenever he turned off the light, and why she’d never noticed any sunlight. The window was totally blocked by snow. She cursed herself for not thinking about that possibility. Now she stared at the snow, trying to figure out whether it was night or day. Her inner clock told her that it was late in the evening on the second night of her captivity. But the tightly packed snow gave little hint as to whether she was right or not.

Then she unwrapped the sweater from around her hand. She saw that it had protected her as she’d hoped. Cautiously she shook the shards of glass out of the sweater and put it back on. There were still sharp pieces sticking out from the window frame, so she began prying them loose. At the same time, she removed the scraps of newspaper and the glass that were embedded in the snow. She put everything in a pile on the floor.

I’ve got to get out of here
, she thought.
If he comes back and sees this, who knows what he might do next
.

After clearing away all the glass, she started digging. But she soon realized she wasn’t tall enough. Even if she stood on tiptoe, she could only manage to make a hole a couple of feet outside the window. To get through the last part she needed something to stand on. And there was only one choice.

With an intense feeling of disgust, she went over to the bucket and picked it up, trying not to look inside. Then she dumped out the contents as far away from the window as possible. Quickly she went back to the window and turned the bucket upside down on the floor. Standing on top of it, she was up high enough to dig properly.

Not long after, she reached her goal. Her hand broke through the snow into the air. She pulled it back, and through the hole she could see that she had guessed right: It was nighttime. A streetlight gave off enough light to see outside as she kept on digging, making the hole bigger. Finally the opening was big enough for her to get through.

*   *   *

“Will the snow mess everything up?”

It was a regular snowstorm, and chief inspector Odd Singsaker stared at the dog that Jens Fjellstad, one of the guys from the canine unit, was holding on a leash. Less than an hour had passed since Elise Edvardsen had called the police.

“Not if we hurry. An hour isn’t very long. He can usually pick up a scent, and aside from the snow, there isn’t much to distract him on a deserted street like this.”

The dog found the traces of blood on Markvegen outside the Edvardsen home, traces that Grongstad had secured by covering with a tarp. The dog picked up the trail instantly. Singsaker and Fjellstad followed the dog across the street, along with two other officers, both of whom wore guns on their belts.

At the first intersection, a snowplow had recently driven through, headed in the direction of the crime scene and then down the slope of Åsbakken. Singsaker cursed when he saw the fresh plow marks.

“Is this a problem?” he asked, holding his breath. They couldn’t lose him now. This was a golden opportunity, the perp’s first big mistake. They really had a chance of catching him. Singsaker could feel it. They were so close that he practically felt he’d picked up the scent himself.

Fjellstad reassured him. “A plow isn’t enough to throw him off the trail.”

The dog stopped abruptly in the intersection, then continued down Åsbakken. But the highly trained German shepherd didn’t get far very before he paused, looking confused.

Fjellstad allowed him to sniff for a while before signaling for him to go back to Markvegen.

“A typical T movement,” he remarked as they trudged back up the hill. “That can be a bigger challenge than a snowplow. He walked partway down the street and then turned. He probably went past Markvegen when he got back up there. He wandered around. If he did that a lot, we may have a few problems.”

Singsaker was breathing heavily. This could mean two things. Either the perp was smart and knew how to fool the dogs or he was confused after being shot and was roaming aimlessly.

“The subject could be psychotic. At any rate, he’s wounded and probably furious as hell,” he told Fjellstad.

Up on Markvegen the dog picked up the scent again, and they all jogged toward Bernhard Getz’ Gate, continued to Ludvig Daaes Gate, and turned onto a path near Lille Kuhaugen, not far from where the body had been discovered.

It was pitch-dark among the trees. Singsaker turned on his flashlight and aimed it ahead of the dog, who was still on the trail. Any visible signs of the likely perpetrator had now been covered by snow. Singsaker tried to breathe calmly, straining to hear any sounds besides the footsteps of the three officers accompanying him. The man might be still hiding here in the woods.

The path led up the steep slope to the view overlooking the city. Out there on a rock outcrop stood a small transformer station, sprayed with graffiti. The dog tugged at his leash until they’d made one full circle of the dilapidated brick building.

Then the dog stopped.

“Shit,” said Fjellstad. “He turned around and headed back the same way we came. So most likely he took another detour somewhere. The problem is that it could be anywhere between here and Åsbakken.”

“Are you saying we’ve lost him?”

Singsaker sighed heavily as he stared down at Trondheim, seeing the lights gleaming in the dark. Then he aimed his flashlight back at the path they’d just taken. The dark forest wasn’t giving up any answers.

Fjellstad didn’t reply either, only shrugged as they headed back, walking in their own footsteps.

They went all the way back down to the street.

There Fjellstad pointed at the plow marks.

“Now this could be a problem. The plow may have disturbed the spoor in the snow. Enough so that the dog can’t find where the subject turned off from the original trail. Especially if the man went into someone’s yard—or, even worse, got into a car.”

And Fjellstad’s prediction turned out to be right. The dog led them right back to their starting point on Markvegen.

They stood there staring at Grongstad’s tarp, which by now was almost completely covered with snow.

“We could start a new search from here, but I’m afraid that the snow is too deep and time has run out for us,” said Fjellstad.

Singsaker sighed. They had been so close. They’d almost caught him. But then they’d been led on a wild-goose chase. He’d had enough of all the false leads in this case.

Even so, he asked Fjellstad to do another search while he went inside the Edvardsens’ house.

*   *   *

Singsaker stared, mesmerized, at the tiny figure in the white tuxedo. He had clear blue eyes and long hair pulled back in a ponytail. It was certainly first-class craftsmanship. The figure had been made back when toys really meant something. The music box stood on the counter in the Edvardsens’ kitchen. Singsaker had wound it up, wearing a pair of white gloves that he’d borrowed from Grongstad, who had just come inside the house. Even though Mr. and Mrs. Edvardsen had both touched the music box after Ivar found it, there still might be some important prints on it.