“Complete coincidence, in fact. A result of youthful fickleness. And I also wanted to go to the States. And you know…”
She discovered that she was biting her hair. As discreetly as possible, she pushed the wet lock of hair behind her ear and straightened her glasses. “I think you’re wrong. Emilie Selbu and little Kim were not abducted by the same man.”
“Or woman.”
“Or woman,” she repeated, exasperated. “But now, however rude it may be, I’m going to have to ask you to… I have quite a lot I need to do today, because I’m… Sorry.”
Again she felt that pressure on her lungs; it was impossible to look at the man on the sofa. He got up from his uncomfortable position with remarkable ease.
“If it happens again,” he said, gathering up the photographs. “If another child is taken, will you help me then?”
Cruella De Vil screeched from the study. Kristiane shrieked with delight.
“I don’t know,” said Johanne Vik. “We’ll see.”
As it was Saturday and the project was going according to plan, he treated himself to a glass of wine. When he thought about it, he realized that it was the first time in months that he’d had alcohol. Normally, he was worried about the effects. A glass or two made him docile. Then halfway through the third he would get angry. Fury waited at the bottom of the fourth glass.
Just one glass. It was still light outside and he held the wine up to the light.
Emilie was difficult. Ungrateful. Even though he wanted to keep the girl alive, for the moment at least, there were limits.
He took a sip. It tasted musty; the wine tasted of cellars.
He had to smile at his own sentimentality. He was just too emotional. He was too kind. Why should Emilie live? What was the point? What had the girl actually done to deserve that? She got food, good food, often. She had clean water in the tap. She even had a Barbie doll that he had bought for her and yet she didn’t seem to be any happier.
Fortunately she’d stopped snivelling. To begin with, and particularly after Kim disappeared, she cried the minute he opened the door down there. She seemed to be having difficulties breathing, which was nonsense. He had installed a good ventilation system ages ago. There was no point in suffocating the child. But she was calmer now. At least she didn’t cry.
The decision to let Emilie live had come naturally. He hadn’t intended it to be that way from the start, at least. But there was something about her, even though she didn’t know it herself. He’d see how long it lasted. She’d have to watch herself. He was sentimental, but he had his limits.
She’d be getting company soon enough.
He put down the glass and pictured eight-year-old Sarah Baardsen. He had memorized her face, stored each feature in his mind, practiced putting her face together so he could call her up at will, whenever and wherever. He didn’t have any pictures. They could fall into the wrong hands. Instead he had studied her in the playground, on the way to her grandmother’s, on the bus. He’d once even sat next to her through an entire film. He knew what her hair smelled like. Sweet and warm.
He put the cork back in the bottle and left it on one of the half-empty shelves in the kitchen. When he glanced out the window, he stiffened. Right outside, only a few yards away, stood a fully grown roe deer. The beautiful animal lifted its head and looked right at him for a moment before sauntering off toward the woods to the west. Tears came to his eyes.
Sarah and Emilie were sure to get along during the time they were together.
SEVENTEEN
Boston’s Logan International Airport was one enormous building site. It smelled damp under the low ceiling and the dust lay thick. Everywhere she looked, warning signs screamed out at her, black writing on a red background. Watch out for the cables on the floor, the beams hanging loose from the walls, and the tarpaulins hiding cement mixers and materials. Four planes from Europe had landed in under half an hour. The line in front of passport control was long, and Johanne Vik attempted to read a paper she had already read from front to back while she waited. Every now and then she would push her carry-on luggage forward with her foot. A Frenchman in a dark camel coat poked her in the back each time she waited a couple of seconds too long before moving.
Lina had turned up the evening before with three bottles of wine and two new CDs. Kristiane had been safely delivered to Isak and her best friend was right, Johanne did not need to worry about tomorrow as she didn’t have to be at Gardemoen Airport until midday. And there was no point in going to work first. Lina’s wine disappeared, along with a quarter bottle of cognac and two Irish coffees. When the airport express train rolled into the platform at the new international airport on the morning of May 22, Johanne had to dash to the toilet to rid herself of the remains of a very good night. It would be a long journey.
Fortunately she had fallen asleep somewhere over Greenland.
Finally it was her turn to show her passport. She tried to hide her mouth. The cloying taste of sleep and an old hangover made her uncertain. The passport inspector took longer than was necessary; he looked at her, stared down, hesitated. Then he finally stamped the necessary documentation in her passport with a resigned thump. She was waved in to the U.S.
Normally it was so different. Coming to America was usually like taking off a backpack. The feeling of freedom was tangible; she felt lighter, younger, happier. Now she shivered in the bitter wind and couldn’t remember where the bus stop was. Instead of renting a car at Logan, she had decided to take the bus to Hyannis. There was a Ford Taurus waiting for her there, which meant she didn’t need to think about the traffic in Boston. If only she could find the damned bus stop. It was chaotic out here too, with temporary detours and temporary signs everywhere. Despondency sank over her and she still felt a bit nauseous. The cologne of the angry Frenchman clung to her clothes.
Two men were leaning against a dark car. They both had baseball caps on and were wearing the characteristic rain jacket. They didn’t need to turn around for Johanne to know that it said FBI in big reflective letters on their broad backs.
Johanne Vik had the same jacket herself. It was hanging in her parents’ cottage and was only used in the pouring rain. The F was half-faded and the B had nearly disappeared.
The FBI men laughed. One stuffed a piece of chewing gum into his mouth, then straightened his cap and opened the car door for a woman in high heels who crossed the road quickly. Johanne turned away. She had to hurry if she was going to catch the bus. She still felt a bit lousy and sick and hoped that she would sleep on the bus. If not, she would have to find a place to stay overnight in Hyannis; she was hardly in any state to drive in the dark.
Johanne started to run. Her suitcase bumped along on its tiny wheels. Breathless, she handed her luggage to the driver and climbed on board.
It struck her that she hadn’t given Aksel Seier a single thought since she left Gardemoen. She might even meet him tomorrow. For some reason or another, she had built up a picture of him. He was quite good-looking, but not particularly tall. Maybe he had a beard. God knows if he would want to see her. To travel to the States, more or less on a whim, with no agreements, no actual information other than an address in Harwich Port and an old story about a man who was convicted of something that he probably didn’t do-it was all so impulsive and unlike her that she smiled at her reflection in the window. She was in the U.S. In a way, she was home again.
She fell asleep before they had left the Ted Williams Tunnel.
And her last thought was of Adam Stubo.
EIGHTEEEN
