Dreamless (19 page)

Singsaker listened to the tune. It was the same melody played by the music box they’d found in the woods. He knew all too well what that meant. And since the discovery of the music box at the murder scene near Kuhaugen had already been covered in the press, Ivar and Elise knew it too.

When the notes faded, Singsaker picked up the music box and handed it over to Grongstad.

“This is the top priority. Look for fingerprints and any biological traces,” he said.

“Biological evidence won’t be a problem,” said Grongstad. “The blood on the road should be enough to obtain a satisfactory profile. Maybe we’ll find a match in our database.”

“He’s toying with us,” said Singsaker. “Do you think he wants to get caught?”

“I don’t know,” replied Grongstad. “But this sure is no ordinary killer we’re dealing with.”

“And yet I have the feeling that we’re not going to find him in the system, no matter how good the fingerprints or DNA evidence are. This guy has been operating under the radar for a long time.”

“You know what I like best about your gut feelings, Singsaker?” said Grongstad with a wry smile.

“No, what?”

“That they’re not really feelings. That’s just what you call them so you don’t have to explain exactly what goes on inside that brain of yours. And you’ve gotten better at it since the surgery.”

Singsaker didn’t laugh. Then he left Grongstad to work while he rejoined the Edvardsens. They were sitting in the living room, where he and Gran had interviewed them the day before. But this time they both sat on the sofa, and Ivar had his arm around his wife’s shoulders.

Singsaker asked them to describe the man, but without much success. It was so dark, and Edvardsen was terrified. Apparently the man had been wearing a hood, a cap underneath, and a scarf around his neck. His face had been partially hidden by the hood. Ivar described the man as unpredictable, but that was largely based on his behavior.

Then Singsaker told the couple that the police would have to take the shotgun into evidence. It was also his duty to investigate the shooting. He told them it was possible that they’d be charged with unlawful use of a firearm and even negligence. And this was regardless of whether or not the victim of the shooting had kidnapped their daughter. At the same time, the injured party in the case had undoubtedly represented a threat, and considering all of the emotions involved, there were obviously mitigating circumstances, since Ivar had reasonably assumed that he was facing a murderer on their property.

Finally, Singsaker sighed and then told them, “Due to time pressures and a shortage of resources, it may be necessary for the police to downgrade a number of criminal cases. I can assure you that Julie’s disappearance isn’t one of them, but separate matters that may arise—let’s say slightly peripheral to the case—might easily land at the bottom of the list.”

“So what you’re saying is that you’re going to take the shotgun but that you might not investigate the shooting any further?” asked Elise. Singsaker understood. They’d just discovered crucial evidence that their daughter hadn’t run away from home but was most likely in the hands of an unpredictable and manipulative killer.

“If the injury to the suspect isn’t serious, your husband hasn’t really done anything but provide the police with good evidence in the case. The important thing right now is to make sure that both of you receive the proper protection. We’re going to position officers here in the house with you.”

The Edvardsens nodded.

“I know that you’re hoping to get your daughter back soon,” Singsaker said. “We thought it was more probable that she had simply run away. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be the case. But I want you to focus on one thing: This has led us closer to a resolution. The perpetrator has shown his face, and we now have concrete evidence. And perhaps most important of all…” Here he paused. He could feel a headache brewing, and for a moment he wondered whether what he had to say would provide any solace. “I think she’s still alive. I think that’s what this behavior pattern is telling us.”

Singsaker instantly regretted his words. His profession had taught him never to promise more than he knew he could deliver.

*   *   *

Julie launched herself upward, noticing as she did so that the bucket fell over and slid away, but she had enough momentum to shove her body into the narrow snow tunnel to freedom. She lay there with her head sticking out into the faint glow from the streetlight as she struggled to free her hands.

That was when she heard him. The lonely sound of footsteps in the quiet night, solitary and distant, as if created by the dark backdrop beyond the streetlights. Only when he got closer did she hear how rapid and agitated his breathing sounded. Was he angry? No, it sounded more like he was in pain.

As he came through the front gate that was no more than twenty yards away, she could see the top of his head behind the banks of snow cleared from the driveway. He was wearing a hood. Instinctively she pulled back a bit.

Suddenly she started sliding backward on the slippery snow. Desperately she flailed her legs, trying to find a foothold. Then she fell back into the room and landed on the toppled plastic bucket. She heard it split in two beneath her.

She wanted to scream, but she was afraid he might hear. He was on his way into the house. Her one opportunity was gone.

She got up from the stinking, filthy basement floor and picked up the length of rope. Feeling stiff and bruised, she staggered over to the corner near the door, not remembering that was where she had emptied the bucket. Leaning against the wall, she waited motionless, listening. She heard him rummaging about upstairs with violent, abrupt movements. Finally he settled down. She heaved a sigh of relief, hoping he would stay in one place for a while or maybe even go out again. If he came down here, he would discover that she’d tried to escape the moment he came into the room. Her mind was working in high gear. Was there any other way for her to reach the window now that the bucket was broken? She had nothing but her clothes and her boots. What if she took off everything and piled them in a heap on the floor? No, it wouldn’t be high enough. She went over to the window and jumped up. She managed to grip the ledge with her fingers, but when she tried to pull herself up and into the tunnel of snow outside, she lost her grip and fell back down. Without something to stand on, it was useless. But she kept on trying.

After the fifth attempt, she heard his footsteps cross the floor overhead and come down the stairs to the basement.

He’s coming to kill me, she thought. When he sees the broken window, it’s over. But maybe he’ll just wind up the music box and leave.

Again she took up her position next to the door. If he came in, she had only one chance. She had to try to overpower him in some way.

He was right outside the door now, but he didn’t wind up the music box. Instead, he started talking. This was the first time he’d spoken to her through the door.

“I went to visit your parents,” he said. “I thought they should hear the tune. I wanted them to know that you’re sacrificing yourself for something beautiful, something unique. But they didn’t appreciate the music. Maybe it’s not important. Maybe what I think of them is more important. What should be done with people who shoot somebody? Should I seek revenge? I have no idea. I just wanted you to know that I went over there. Something tells me that it might motivate you. And if you sing the song properly, I’ll probably forget about any thought of revenge. I’m almost sure of that.”

Her hands shook with fear and rage, but she forced herself not to say anything. He must not find out that she’d taken off the gag.

Then he said, as if he could smell her emotions, “Fear. I think it should be sung with fear in your voice. But it should be the fear of someone who is brave and is almost able to hide it completely. That’s how it should be sung. Not the way Silje sang it.”

Of course the thought had occurred to Julie long ago, but this confirmation of her worst suspicions almost made her legs give way beneath her. She felt herself starting to slide to the floor, but she forced her legs to hold her up. He was the one who had killed the woman in the woods. The story had been in all the newspapers.

She couldn’t keep a small sigh from escaping her lips.

He fell silent on the other side of the door. Had he heard her?

But then she heard him get to his feet and come toward the door. He put the key in the lock, and a moment later the door opened. She was standing behind it, hidden from view. To him, the room looked empty. He must have seen the broken window and the tunnel through the snow. He hobbled over to the window and screamed.

This was her chance. She could slip out the door and hope he didn’t turn around before she’d made her escape, but already he’d started looking around uncontrollably. Any second he’d catch sight of her. If she was going to slip around the door and run out, she would have to get so close to him that he’d be on her before she crossed the threshold. Her best chance was to knock him to the ground before she ran off.

Then she saw his leg.

He’d torn off his pants leg above the knee and wrapped a dressing around his calf. The bandage had been recently applied, but blood had already seeped through the white cloth.

Cautiously she stepped forward and took aim. Then she kicked him right in the middle of the wound. He howled and bent over to grab his leg.

Holding the rope between her hands, she threw herself at him from behind. At the same instant, he abruptly stood up so that she was hanging from his back with only the tips of her toes touching the floor. She felt his body tense as the rope tightened around his neck. She pulled as hard as she could and heard him gasping for air.

Then he took two steps back just as she regained her footing. She pulled on the rope one last time, and he sank down. The back of his head struck the brick floor with a thud.

She looked down at him and saw his eyes staring at her, his expression empty and lifeless.

Then she ran. She dashed out the door but paused in the hallway. Something held her back.

She found the storeroom door where she thought her dog must be imprisoned and went over to touch the handle. The door opened. Inside she found Bismarck huddled in a corner. When he saw her, he got up and limped toward her. He was hurt and it took effort for him to walk.

Then she heard the man moving in the room next door. How was that possible? How had he managed to get up so quickly?

She leaned down and kissed the dog on his snout.

“I’ll come back for you,” she whispered, and then turned to run.

He came out of the room just as she reached the bottom of the stairs. In four bounds she was at the top, yanking on the door handle.

That was when she realized that she had lost. She’d done everything she could, and there was nothing more to do. All hope had vanished.

And time stood still.

Her head was filled with the strangest images. Walking Bismarck along snow-covered roads. The woman with no throat from the newspaper stories. Fredrik naked in the dim light of his room. A fetus somewhere deep inside her. Her mother, with a rare smile on her face. A choir singing. Fragments of a life about to slip away.

The door refused to budge. He’d locked it.

She held her breath as she turned around.

He’d stopped halfway up the stairs, knowing he had all the time he needed. Then he slowly started moving upward. He paused on each step until he was three steps below her. She tried to meet his eyes but found them empty of all expression. It was like he was somewhere else entirely.

At one time she’d thought she knew who he was. But she had been terribly mistaken. He didn’t even belong in the same reality as she did.

Then he came up the last steps. His hand with the missing two fingers grabbed her by the hair right above her ear.

He took two steps down, yanking her hair. She lost her balance. He let go and she tumbled down the stairs. She lay on the basement floor, gasping, as she looked around in confusion. Bismarck was standing in the doorway to the storeroom, staring at her. He looked exhausted and frightened, and he was too worn-out to come to her aid.

“Don’t try to save me,” she whispered to him. “No one can save me now.”

Then the man was standing over her.

“What do you want from me, you sick bastard?” she screamed. Something in her was still fighting back, trying to fend off the inevitable. “What do you want from me?”

“But my dear Julie Edvardsen. You know what I want. I want you to sing.”

He grabbed her hair again and dragged her into the room with Bismarck. There he dropped her on the floor.

Before she could get up, he took the dog and left. The sound of the key turning in the lock was like the cocking of a gun. Then the music started. This time it wasn’t the music box. It was from a CD. Bellman. She recognized the song as the one she was supposed to have sung at the concert in Ringve, in another lifetime that was all over long ago.

“Drink up your glass, see death outside waiting, whetting his sword as he stands at your door.”

*   *   *

He was trying to bring his breath under control. The Bellman tune was slowly having an effect and he calmed down. He stood still, one hand touching the bandage on his leg. The shot had grazed his knee. He’d used tweezers to remove four pieces of buckshot, and he hadn’t been hit anywhere else. By now the bleeding had stopped.

The pain had been awful. It hurt so much that he’d almost blacked out after he’d stanched the bleeding with a strip of cloth he’d torn from his shirt at the foot of Åsbakken. He’d trudged through the streets for a while, unable to think clearly until he’d almost reached Kuhaugen. And that had frightened him. It was the first time that he’d felt completely gone. Not even the fly inside his head showed any sign of life. He’d been like a sleepwalker, but it was not sleep that he’d experienced; it was total darkness. Fortunately, it hadn’t lasted long. His mind had cleared, and he’d turned around and come back to the house, only to discover that she’d tried to escape.