Dreamless (33 page)

It was pitch-black and very quiet inside the snow cave. No one was singing anymore, and the only sound was the faint breathing of another person.

In the silence she thought she could hear her own pulse.

Thud, thud, thud.

It was getting slower. Even though he hadn’t stabbed her, she wasn’t going to last much longer in the freezing cold.

She imagined that she could also hear the heartbeat of the man who had tried to save her. But she knew that she was hallucinating in between those moments of clarity when she understood what was happening to her.

I’m going to freeze to death. That’s why I feel so warm. I read about that somewhere. Dreams, hallucinations, warmth.

That is how we leave this life.

*   *   *

Thorvald Jensen thought mostly about Odd Singsaker.

Why was Odd always the first one to arrive and then bear the brunt of the situation? And yet he was the weakest of them all. He was the one who could least afford the stress. For a long time now, Jensen had thought that his colleague might have returned to work too soon after his illness, that maybe he ought to have been given other assignments instead of working on an active investigation. He suspected that Singsaker had been more affected by his health issues than he was willing to let on; instead he tried to cover up and trivialize what he’d been through. Jensen had never said anything to him about his concerns. He wasn’t sure if that made him a good or a bad friend. At the moment, none of that mattered. Right now the important thing was to get him to safety. He hoped that nothing serious had happened after Singsaker phoned. He hoped he was still alive.

They had assembled outside in the street. Six police vehicles, two ambulances, and a fire truck with axes and ladders and other equipment that might prove necessary. They had blocked off the entire street and started evacuating the neighbors. One of them had immediately filed a complaint that Singsaker’s car had burst through onto his property and smashed the fence. The police had wasted a lot of time trying to calm the man down, but they weren’t taking any chances in such a risky situation. The closest neighbors had to be moved to a safe area.

Jensen was in charge of the operation, and no one could tell how uneasy he actually was. He ordered the officers into position. There was no indication that Røed had a gun, which should make things easier. It was dark now, and they could use that to their advantage. He’d spoken to the chief of the firefighters and asked whether they could shut off the power in the area. They happened to have an electrician with them. Strange, thought Jensen. The firemen always seem to have someone who’s an electrician. Jensen watched as the firefighter went over to a junction box a few yards down the street, carrying a tool. Everyone waited in silence until they saw the light over the front door of Røed’s house go out. A few seconds later, all the streetlights in the area switched off.

Jensen was pleased to have darkness settle over them. It allowed him to think more clearly, although his feeling of dread was increasing. With every task they carried out, every routine move they made, and with every minute that passed, it became more and more evident that something was very wrong. It was too quiet.

Jensen slowly became convinced that the house was empty, or that at least there was no one alive inside.

“We’re sending in a team!” he shouted, pointing. “We’re going in the front door!”

A group of nine men from the SWAT team moved like soundless shadows, splitting up to take positions on either side of the door. Then they disappeared inside, stomping loudly and shouting.

Going for the shock effect, thought Jensen. These guys know what they’re doing.

*   *   *

Fifteen minutes later he was standing inside looking at the body of Mona Gran. The SWAT team had secured the house but hadn’t found Singsaker, Julie Edvardsen, or Jonas Røed.

Several other officers stood next to Jensen, and some of them had removed their caps. Jensen had been on the force for almost thirty-five years. It had been a long time since he’d lost a colleague in the line of duty. Why did this have to happen now? Why did she have to be so much younger than he was, her whole life ahead of her?

He couldn’t bear to stay in the room for long. Grongstad would have to handle things here.

Back outside, he paused to think, staring at the ground. Damn it, Odd, where are you?

Then he saw the trail of blood on the snow.

He used his flashlight to follow the blood through the yard and around the huge mound of snow. There he saw the opening.

He shuddered when he found the ax lying in the snow outside, blood on the blade. His pulse racing, he crouched down, then crawled along the narrow passageway, which was just big enough for him to fit through.

He aimed his flashlight straight ahead and saw a big space dug out of the snow. He could almost stand upright in it, and there was enough room for three people to lie side by side. He looked at the three lifeless bodies. In the middle was the man they’d been hunting, with a knife sticking out of his throat. Strangely enough, Jensen was fairly certain that the man had done that himself, but Grongstad and Kittelsen would have to confirm it. Blood ran from the wound, and the blood that had already landed on the snow had begun to congeal into an icy crust.

To the left of the man lay Julie Edvardsen, her eyes closed as if she were asleep.

Singsaker was lying on his stomach, his face turned away. He had a deep wound in his thigh.

Jensen leaned forward to touch Singsaker’s neck and feel for his pulse. He held his fingers there for a moment, then moved them slightly, and finally he felt it. It was weak. Weak as a fly grazing his fingertips. He pulled out his radio and quickly shouted orders to his colleagues. Then he moved over to the girl and touched her neck. Here too he felt a pulse. Very weak, but it was there.

But Jonas Røed was dead.

36

Elise had read the page
at least five times, but it was in English, so she didn’t understand all of it. Foreign languages had never been her strong suit. Julie had inherited Ivar’s talent with languages and could read English easily. Elise tried over and over to make some sense of this page, searching for some explanation, as if it might tell her where Julie had been taken.
Sandman
. It seemed to be about dreams and sleep. That much she had figured out.

She put it down and sighed.

Then the phone rang. She picked up and listened for several moments without saying a word. Then she hung up. Her hands were shaking. But this was a different kind of shaking from what she’d experienced over the past few days. She ran to the bedroom where Ivar was sleeping and threw herself onto the bed.

“Good Lord, Elise, calm down,” said her husband, putting his arms around her. He thought she needed to be consoled again.

She looked at him in the light that streamed through the open bedroom door. He was still in pain, but now she could set his mind at rest.

First she needed to take a deep breath. Then a few more. She wanted to be totally calm when she said the words.

“They’ve found her,” she told him at last. “Julie is being taken to the hospital right now. They say she is suffering from hypothermia. But she’s going to be all right.”

He turned over so he could switch on the light.

Then they sat there, staring at each other. Her hands were still shaking.

We’re going to get her back
, she thought.

Nothing will be the same as before.

*   *   *

Odd Singsaker woke up in a hospital bed when his phone rang.

It was his son, Lars.

This time he needed to take the call. He couldn’t spare him from everything. No doubt Lars had read the news reports about the recent events and was worried.

“Hi,” Singsaker merely said.

“Hi, Pappa. How are you doing?”

“Well, all these stitches hurt like hell. But I’ll survive.”

“You’re tough for an old guy.”

Singsaker was relieved. This was a new tone of voice from his son. Or rather, it was the new way they’d started communicating after the christening in the fall, when his second grandchild was baptized. At the time, he’d been staying with his son’s family in their cramped apartment in Torshov with Felicia. For the first time in his life he’d discovered that his son had a sense of humor. At least that’s one thing I’ve taught him, he thought. But then he’d realized that Felicia was the one who’d done it—she’d brought father and son closer without either of them noticing.

“I’ve been trying to call you for a while,” said Lars.

“I’ve been really busy with this damned case.”

“But not so busy on the home front?”

Singsaker gave a start. How did Lars know? Whom had he been talking to?

“What do you mean by that?” he asked. Now he heard a voice in the background: “Did you get hold of him? Is he okay?”

Then Lars said, “There’s somebody here who wants to talk to you.”

Singsaker sat up in bed, silently holding the phone to his ear. Had he heard correctly? Was it really her voice he’d just heard?

“Odd, how are you?” she said then.

“Felicia? Are you at Lars’s place?”

“I didn’t know where else to go. There aren’t really a lot of places for me to stay in this country.”

“I thought you went back to the States.”

“I almost did,” she told him.

“What are you going to do now?”

“I want to come home,” she said.

“Do you mean here, to Trondheim?”

“Yes.”

Singsaker closed his eyes. There was a faint rushing sound in his head.

“Then I guess it’s your turn to visit me in the hospital,” he said, thinking about the week he’d kept vigil over Felicia in the fall. Her injuries had been far more serious than his. If he was lucky, this time they’d let him go home in a few days.

“I’ll come and see you every day until you’re well,” she said.

“So you’re not mad at me anymore?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I was never mad at you.”

*   *   *

A few seconds after he put down the phone, it rang again. It was Lars, and he spoke in a low voice.

“Did you forget something?” asked Singsaker.

“I wanted to say something when Felicia wasn’t in the room,” he replied.

“What’s that?”

“She was in really bad shape when she got here. She just lay on the sofa for almost twenty-four hours before she managed to pull herself together. You need to take care of her, Pappa.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I will.”

Then he turned off his phone and went to sleep.

*   *   *

He was lying on his back when Felicia came into the room. A nurse who bore a striking resemblance to Siri Holm had just tended to his wound, this time leaving off the bandages.

The stitches were red and itchy.

Felicia came over to him. He noticed the sweet smell of alcohol and sweat as she leaned over to kiss his forehead. Neither of them said a word. She bent down and kissed the first stitch, letting her lips linger there for a while. She was breathing slowly, easily. When she raised her lips, the stitch was gone and the edges of the top part of the wound had grown together.

She did the same thing with the next stitch.

Without a word, she worked her way down until they had all disappeared, along with the wound on his thigh. Then she straightened up and looked at him with that wise and melancholy expression that she had occasionally. It was a look that could sometimes, briefly, convince him that melancholia was the only healthy approach to life.

“Sleep well, my dear,” she said, kissing him on the forehead once more.

Then he woke from the dream.

*   *   *

He was alone. Felicia wasn’t there. He looked at his watch and saw that it was a little past ten in the morning. A whole day and night had passed since they’d last spoken. This was the first time he’d slept soundly since that phone call.

He’d been waiting. Three times he’d talked to Lars on the phone. His son told him that Felicia had booked herself a ticket on the three o’clock plane yesterday afternoon. So why hadn’t she come to the hospital yet?

He decided to call Siri.

“Hi, Odd. Happy birthday!” she said. “I thought you’d give me the chance to call you. That’s usually how it works on someone’s birthday, you know.”

“Shit. Is today my birthday?” he said, suddenly confused.

“Must be your memory playing tricks on you again.” She laughed. “Isn’t Felicia there with you?”

He’d spoken to Siri last night and told her that Felicia was coming back.

“That’s why I’m calling,” he said. “I haven’t seen her, and she’s not answering her phone. I was wondering if you could drop by the apartment and see if she’s there.”

Siri assured him that she’d be happy to do that during her lunch hour.

At 11:55 she called him from outside his apartment on Kirkegata. The door was locked, the windows were dark, and there was no sign of Felicia Stone.

He sighed.

“I’m sure she’ll turn up,” said Siri. “She probably decided to spend an extra day in Oslo.”

They both knew that sounded very unlikely.

He thanked Siri for her help.

After he put down the phone, someone knocked on the door and a nurse came into his room.

“There’s a young man here who’d like to speak with you,” she said.

Behind her, Singsaker could see Fredrik Alm in the doorway. The nurse left as the boy came into the room. For a moment he stood there, not sure what to do. Then he reached into his pocket and took out a black notebook. Singsaker recognized it at once.

“Where did you get that?” he asked as Fredrik handed it to him.

“At school. It was in the Lost and Found box, and when I saw your name on it, I thought I should bring it over. I guess you must have left it behind when you came to talk to us. I also wanted to thank you—for rescuing Julie.”

Singsaker felt a pang of guilt.

We should have caught the guy sooner, he thought. It was my fault.

“How’s she doing?” Singsaker asked.