Where Monsters Dwell (19 page)

He tried to hide his astonishment. But was he really surprised? Siri Holm wasn’t the only one in the room who could read people. He’d known that there was something unique about this young woman from the first time he saw her at the library.

“Knowledge is always based on something,” he said. “Provided it’s not just speculation, or in your case, a lucky guess.”

“Do you read crime novels?” she asked.

“Do doctors read doctor novels?”

“If you read crime novels, you’d know that there are two main types of investigators,” she said. “There’s the rational, methodical kind who collects evidence and finds the solution by putting together all the clues in the case. Then there’s the less systematic type, who follows his intuition and searches for the decisive clue. Most investigators are probably a mixture of both types. The thing is, both the systematic and the unsystematic investigator are really doing the same thing. They evaluate the evidence. It’s just that some investigators think and make associations more rapidly than others. Sherlock Holmes, for instance. What seems like superior intuition is actually only an extremely rapid and systematic processing of data.”

“And you think this is relevant to reality?”

“Certainly. Take yourself. Since you came in here, you’ve scratched your head about fifteen times in a particular spot just above your forehead. That could be a bad habit, of course, but people who habitually scratch their heads rarely scratch in exactly the same spot. Which could mean that you actually scratch there because of something other than an old habit. The same is true of the way you scratch. You do it quickly, as you look away. It’s obvious that you don’t want other people to notice that you’re scratching. So what you’re scratching must be something you don’t want to talk about. I think it’s probably a scar from an operation. And I think that most people with a scar on their forehead have been through some form of life crisis.”

“And the divorce?”

“That’s easy. You got divorced last summer. You still have a mark from your wedding ring on your finger. So you continued to wear it during the summer, long enough to get a little tan on your hands before you took it off. Of course, you may have just left it at home today. But if we put that together with the way you behaved, there’s really no doubt.”

“And how am I behaving?”

“Like someone who wants to be in control. Not in control of other people, because then you wouldn’t have let me talk as freely as I have. But in control of yourself. The way you looked away when I was naked, even though you didn’t want to; the way you examined the room. I’m guessing that you had a very serious illness that made you feel like you’d lost control over your life. And in an unsuccessful attempt to win back that control, you’ve fled from yourself.”

“Impressive,” he said. “But what about the other thing you said about me?”

“You mean about pretending not to desire me? If you hadn’t wanted me, you would have come over and sat next to me on the sofa long ago,” she said, patting the place next to her. “There aren’t many other places to sit in this room, are there?”

He couldn’t help laughing. Nor could he help being entertained by Siri Holm. It was rare to meet someone with so few inhibitions, especially in his profession. Someone who was so outspoken, and also such an accurate judge of character. Surprised at himself, he went over and sat down beside her. Her hair was still wet.

“Let’s return to the matter at hand,” he said. “You said you didn’t think Vatten had anything to do with the murder.”

“I didn’t say that he didn’t have anything to do with it. I said that he isn’t the murderer. You’re all suspicious of the wrong person.”

“And what do you base that on?”

“Tell me, Singsaker, are you asking me to do your job for you?”

“No, I’m not, but if you have information about the case, I have to ask you to tell me.”

“The only information I have about the case is that I consider Jon to be absolutely incapable of cutting someone’s throat and then flaying them. The rest is up to you to figure out.”

He sighed in resignation but knew that he wasn’t going to get any further this way.

“You obviously have keen powers of observation,” he said. “When you were in the book vault and the two of you discovered the body, did you notice anything else?”

“Like what?”

“Like a book missing?”

“I wouldn’t have known that since it was the first time I was inside the vault.”

“True enough.”

“Did you have a specific book in mind?”

“Not really. But have you ever heard of the
Johannes Book
?”

“Of course I’ve heard of it.”

“Why ‘of course’?”

“If you’re a newly hired librarian at the Gunnerus Library, you have to know about it. The
Johannes Book
is something of a celebrity among the book crowd. As for me, I know it better than most people. I wrote a thesis on it when I was studying to be a librarian.”

“Interesting,” he said. “And had you heard that there’s supposed to be a curse on the book?”

“Of course,” she replied, and laughed as she looked at him. “But honestly, Singsaker, you don’t think … I must say, you surprise me.”

“No, I don’t believe in the curse, and I don’t think it’s suddenly been awakened to life,” he said firmly. “I just thought that other people might.”

“You scared me for a minute there. I also think we could be dealing with an irrational murderer,” she said. The affected way she was talking suited her in an odd way, as if she had stepped right out of one of the crime novels on her shelves. Then she added, “But I believe this might be something much worse.”

“Which is what?”

“An ice-cold killer who’s trying to appear irrational,” said Siri Holm.

“I think you’ve read too many mysteries,” he said, nodding toward her bookcases.

“You don’t learn to solve real-life murder cases by reading mysteries. There’s something quite different going on in a fictional investigation. Many people think that the point is to reveal the murderer, while what’s actually important is to reveal the author.”

“That’s an interesting way to look at it,” said Singsaker.

“What determines how fast the reader learns the identity of the murderer in a mystery is how well or how badly the author succeeds in hiding him. From the author’s point of view, the difficulty is obviously that the murderer has to be included in the story in some way. The most common way is to make him one of several suspects. A common mistake is to try to portray the murderer as less suspicious than the other characters. That makes it easy. But it can be done in an elegant way. Agatha Christie was for many people the master of hiding the murderer. She wrote novels in which a child is the murderer, or the narrator is the murderer, or in which all the suspects are the murderer, and even a story in which the murderer is apparently one of the victims. There are a number of books in which the detective himself is the murderer. It could be a detective who somehow suffered a blackout or amnesia, and so he’s investigating himself without knowing he committed the murders.”

As she said this, she put her hand on Singsaker’s knee and kept it there. He could feel himself flushing. He noticed that he wasn’t paying attention to what she was saying. All he was thinking about was that it had been a long, long time, and that a young woman had her hand on his knee, and that she had known he was divorced just by looking at him.

“I really have to go work out soon,” she said. “One way or another.” Her hand moved from his knee to his cheek.

After the first kiss he was lost. A lost policeman.

*   *   *

Siri Holm opened her eyes. She fell asleep after Singsaker crept out of her apartment. Now she was lying on the sofa with sweet memories. She still had her black tae kwon do belt around her waist. The rest of her outfit lay on the coffee table next to the sofa. She sat up and stuck both thumbs under the belt as she smiled. Black belt in love, she thought, as she slipped the belt down over her hips and let it drop to the floor. Then she went to the bathroom and took a shower. Siri Holm was careful about her hygiene.

Afterward she put on jeans without panties, a colorful blouse, and a red raincoat. She looked at an antique wall clock next to the kitchen door and saw that it was already late in the evening. Then she went out.

*   *   *

Yep, my policeman was right. I do have sharp powers of observation, thought Siri Holm, as she punched in the code she had seen Vatten use on the lock of the book vault in the Gunnerus Library. Her own code was already entered. The vault door gave a good-natured click, and she was able to open it. Inside she stood looking at the surveillance camera up by the ceiling. The system was turned off; she’d already checked that in Vatten’s office, which for some reason was unlocked.

Nobody is more sloppy about security than the police, she thought. When a crime has occurred, no one expects another one to be committed in the same place. She sniffed at the air. The police had taken away everything but the stench of death. But that didn’t make much difference. She wouldn’t be in here for long. She went straight over to the bookshelf where there was a thin little leather-bound book. She took it from the shelf and paged through it. She inspected each page carefully. Then she looked at the cover.

“Just as I thought,” she murmured to herself. Then she slipped the book inside a plastic bag she’d brought along and put it in her raincoat pocket. Siri Holm left the Gunnerus Library at thirteen minutes past midnight. No surveillance cameras recorded her arrival or departure. Since she was using a passkey while waiting for her own key card, no one would be able to track her electronically.

18

Richmond, June 1996

“
Shaun Nevins? Are you
sure?” Susan laughed.

“What’s wrong with him?” Felicia wanted to know. “Besides, it has to be somebody. The plan was to lose our virginity before graduating from high school.”

“But Shaun Nevins? That daddy’s boy? If his parents didn’t have so much money, everyone would see what an idiot he is.”

“Ah! Are you calling my date an idiot?”

“He is, and you know it.”

“Well, I like him, and he’s good-looking,” Holly broke in.

“Thank you, Holly,” Felicia said, and had to laugh at the whole conversation.

“We can agree that he’s good-looking,” said Susan, taking a big hit. “And all three of us know that we’re not going to marry them. It’s just a matter of getting it over with. You’re the only one left, Felicia. Are you sure you don’t want a toke?” She held out the joint, which was smoked down to the roach.

Felicia shook her head and held up the regular cigarette she had between her fingers.

“Virginia’s finest. Don’t you think it’s a lot healthier?” she said dryly. “Besides, I want to have a clear head.”

They were sitting by the bank of the James River. Susan Maddox, Holly LeVold, and Felicia Stone. Three best friends who shared everything. Even the most private things. Things Felicia didn’t really want to share but reluctantly agreed to talk about, such as the fact that she would soon be graduating from high school and was still a virgin. Susan had a simple view of the matter.

“The objective, first of all, is to get laid, and if it can be done in a halfway civilized manner, that’s a plus,” she said.

“Jeez, he at least has to try and seduce you first. If not, forget about it,” said Holly.

“I don’t need to be in love, that’s not it, but I think I have to know that I
could
fall in love with him,” said Felicia.

“Seriously,” said Susan. “Are you getting married, or are you getting laid?”

If Felicia were honest about it, she’d admit that she’d rather avoid both. Though lately she had been getting excited about the thought of losing her virginity, not just to get it over with, but because she was also almost eighteen and felt ready for it. It felt like the right time. She had managed to wait so long that she actually felt like doing it. Susan was right. Falling in love would have to wait for a more important occasion. But one thing was still important: He had to be good-looking.

She looked at Susan in the glow of the roach as she took one last hit and flicked it toward the riverbank. Behind them, at the end of a path that led up toward River Drive, they could hear the roar of Brian Anderson’s party; they were just taking a short break. The noise level was reaching new heights. Felicia knew it wouldn’t be long before the cops arrived and told them to break it up. If she was going to get Shaun to come with her without first having to talk to a few of her father’s colleagues, she ought to go back to the party and drag him away. But how was she going to do that without seeming desperate? Because she was determined to hold on to some vestige of dignity.

They walked back through the blossoming cherry trees at the bottom of the Andersons’ yard. It smelled so good. Felicia thought about something she’d read in English class, about the poet Basho who lived in the 1600s. He would gather his friends together each year when the cherry trees bloomed in the spring. They would lie next to each other under the trees and write long linking poems, called
renga
. One haiku would take over where the last one ended. One long improvisation. It was a sort of jazz, using only words.

“Old lady, a frog jumps, the sound of water,” Felicia said suddenly.

Susan looked at her and instantly started to giggle, stoned as she was. But Holly was in the same poetry class with Felicia, and she recognized the words.

“Haiku,” she said.

“Basho,” Felicia clarified.

“Haiku is good, Felicia. Empty your head of thoughts and just let things be what they are. Let the frog jump.” Holly smiled.

“But what about the sound of the water? What does the frog think about that?” asked Felicia, more to the cherry trees than to Holly.

*   *   *

Felicia didn’t have to drag Shaun away against his will. She found him standing with a beer in his hand together with the guys from the soccer team. They drove Volkswagens or BMWs, depending on how much money their parents had, wore Topsiders and shirts with a polo player on the breast pocket, and listened to weird British bands like the Smiths. Shaun despised everything that was vulgar and what he called “redneck.” Some people might say that Shaun was the vulgar one, or at least a bit full of himself, but he did have a sense of humor. He was in the poetry class with Felicia, and many of the things he said during class were well formulated and smart. But for tonight the most important thing was that he looked good. When he caught sight of Felicia, he left his pals and came over to her.