Bad Blood

29

Gunnar Nyberg needed to pee. He had been sitting motionless in a chair in the basement of police headquarters for several hours. Not for a second had his attention flagged. The two guards had played blackjack for a few hours, and then they had been relieved, and now a new pair of guards were sitting there playing blackjack.

In other words, the monotony was monumental. The architecture, without a doubt, contributed its share. The walls had been sloppily painted a light yellow, and the lights, covered by a faint layer of dust on top, shone a loathsome glare through the corridor. Now the urge to pee crept over him and struck in a dastardly ambush.

Food was delivered to Wayne Jennings. That was a worrying moment. The incongruous bowl of soup remained standing on the guards’ table for so long that the steam stopped rising from it. Their hand of blackjack seemed to be taking years. Isn’t blackjack a relatively quick game? his urge to pee said. Up to twenty-one in a few puny cards, and then you’re done?

The guards looked at him sternly. Then they picked up the tray with the soup bowl, the bread, and the mug of milk, and prepared to enter.

They went in. They locked the door behind them. Nyberg remained seated in the corridor. He took out his service weapon, took off the safety, and aimed it straight at the thick door with his healthy left hand. He feared what would come crawling out of there. He was sitting five yards from the door, and he would shoot to kill.

Time crept on. The guards were still gone. With every second, his conviction grew stronger. He pushed his urge to pee back into the wings.

The door slid open.

Wayne Jennings actually looked surprised when he saw Nyberg sitting there with the pistol aimed right at his heart.

“Gunnar Nyberg,” said Jennings courteously. “Nice to see you.”

Nyberg stood up. The chair fell with a clang that echoed through the corridor, echoing back and forth in this wild beast’s cave.

He held the weapon steady, aimed at his heart.

Jennings took a step forward.

Gunnar Nyberg shot. Two shots, right to the heart. Wayne Jennings was thrown backward through the corridor. He lay still.

Nyberg took a few steps toward him, keeping the pistol aimed straight at the body.

Then Wayne Jennings got up.

He smiled. His icy gaze did not smile.

Nyberg trembled. He was six feet away. He emptied the magazine into the Kentucky Killer’s body. It hurtled back again and lay on the floor.

Gunnar Nyberg was close now.

Wayne Jennings got up again. The bullet holes shone like black lights in his white shirt. He smiled.

Nyberg shot again. The pistol clicked. He threw it aside. Then he aimed an uppercut. This time Jennings would not get up.

He hit the air. There was no one there.

A terrible pain went through his large body. He had never imagined that his body could shake so violently. He lay on the floor; Jennings was pinching a point on the back of his neck. He stared up into Jennings’s serious face.

“Forget me now,” said Wayne Jennings. “You have to erase me from your consciousness. Otherwise you will never find peace.”

He released him. Nyberg tried to sit up, but he was still trembling.

The last thing he heard before everything went black was a voice that said:

“I am No One.”