He ended the call and quickly made another.

Chapter 112

    LYNDON CREBBS ANSWERED AFTER the first ring.

    “How’s it going, you amateur? Are you getting anywhere?” Lyndon asked.

    “Can you check on a Sandra Schulman? Last known address Wilshire Avenue, corner of Veteran Avenue.”

    “Anything special about her?”

    “She may have disappeared, permanently. Take this as a tip from an anonymous source: she could be buried in the hills above Montecito. Sylvia was jealous of her. Enough said.”

    Jacob could hear the FBI agent’s pen scratch.

    “What about William Hamilton?” Lyndon Crebbs asked as he wrote. “Is he still alive, I hope?”

    “If the LAPD takes a look there, they’ll find a heap of snow in the bedroom. He’s alive. But he’s an obnoxious little prick.”

    Lyndon chuckled.

    “By the way,” he said, “I was reading the report on the search of the Rudolphs’ hotel room in Stockholm. What did that key belong to?”

    “What key?” Jacob said.

    “The little key that’s mentioned at the bottom of page three.”

    “How the hell could you read that, Lyndon? It’s in Swedish.”

    “Haven’t you ever used the site www.tyda.se?” Lyndon Crebbs said. “Just an old man wondering.”

    The police in Stockholm must have checked it out, Jacob thought. “Christ, this is mad,” he said. “Do you know why the twins were thrown out of UCLA?

    They had sex with each other in public.”

    “Ah, today’s youth,” the FBI agent said. “Something else occurred to me: what if there are other killers? What if the Rudolphs have inspired copycats?”

    “The thought has occurred to me, too,” Jacob said. “But it doesn’t fit. The content of the postcards has never been made public, for instance. If there are more killers, they have to be working together.”

    “Sicker things have been known to happen,” Lyndon Crebbs said. “When do you think you’ll be back at Citrus Avenue?”

    Jacob grew serious. “I won’t be back this visit,” he said. “I’m heading off now.”

    Lyndon Crebbs was silent, a silence that only grew. Jacob was treading water. He couldn’t bring himself to ask the only relevant question: exactly how bad was the prostate cancer?

    Jacob spoke again. “Just one more thing. Could you pull a few strings and see if you can find out anything about Lucy? My ex? I should tell her about Kimmy.”

    The old man let out a sigh.

    “I thought you’d never ask.”

    “Thanks for everything,” Jacob said.

    “Well, adios, amigo, then,” Lyndon Crebbs replied.

“Hasta la vista,” Jacob said. “Till next time.”

    But the line was already dead, and Jacob wondered if he’d ever hear his friend’s voice again.

Chapter 113

Tuesday, June 22

Oslo, Norway

    THE MOTOR HOME WAS in a campsite just outside the city. The police cordon had been lifted from the entrance to the site but was still in place around the vehicle.

    Dessie pulled the zipper on her Windbreaker up snug and tight under her chin.

    The campsite was almost empty, and not just because of the weather. The Italians’ motor home was all alone in its section of the site, like a leprous metal box whose neighbors had fled in panic.

    She went closer.

    Drifts of dead insects were still littering the insides of the windows. They covered the bottom third of the screens.

    She pulled the hood over her head. A stiff gale was blowing in from the Oslo fjord just below, sharp as needles.

    It was the flies that had let on that something was wrong inside the Italians’ motor home. The people in the neighboring tents had complained about the buzzing, and eventually also about the smell. The owner of the site, a man named Olsen, hadn’t been too bothered. The Italians were paying for their patch on account, and he wasn’t fussy. If people wanted to keep flies as pets, he wasn’t about to stop them. When the police eventually arrived, the windows were completely covered in swarms of black insects. They were as thick as curtains. It was estimated that the bodies had been there for over a month. Dessie pulled out the copy of the Polaroid picture, taken before the flies had started to lay eggs.

    The wind tore at the sheet of paper, and she had to hold it with both hands. The letter and postcard had only been found the previous morning. The reporter the killers had chosen had gone away on vacation the day the card was posted. No one had been checking his mail.

    When he returned to work at the paper, he found both the postcard, TO

    BE OR NOT TO BE, and the photograph Dessie now had before her. Antonio Bonino and Emma Vendola had been on a driving tour of Europe, and had arrived in Oslo on the morning of May 17. They wanted to experience Norway’s national day, the celebrations when the Norwegians mark the anniversary of their country’s independence.

    Emma worked as a secretary at a PR agency. Antonio was studying to be a dentist. They had been married for two years.

    She looked at the victims’ picture again.

    Their hands had been placed close to their faces, the palms to their ears. The killers had stuffed two pairs of black tights in their mouths, giving the faces a grotesque expression of pain and horror.

    She had recognized the work of art immediately, and it was famous. Edvard Munch’s The Scream, a painting that had become world-famous to a new generation as the logo for the horror movie Scream. Dessie could feel her eyes welling up. She didn’t know if it was because of the wind or the thought of the dead couple.

    They had been saving up to buy this vehicle ever since they got married. Six bunks, so there would be room for the children when they came along. Did they have time to feel afraid?

    Did they feel any pain?

    She turned away from the motor home and walked toward the exit, not wanting to think about the dead anymore.

    Instead she conjured up Jacob’s image. His messy hair, the crumpled suede jacket, the sparkling blue eyes. He hadn’t been in touch. He’d disappeared from her life as though he’d never been there. This past week could have been a dream, or, rather, a nightmare, in which her whole life had been turned upside down by forces she had no control over. Dessie shivered.

    She stopped by the exit and turned around to look back at the abandoned campsite.

    Willowy birch trees bent beneath the wind; the water down below was gray with geese. The cordon around the motor home flapped in the wind. The Rudolphs could have been responsible for these murders. They hadn’t been arrested yet in the middle of May.

Chapter 114

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