Death Angels

45

EVERYBODY GATHERED AT WINTER’S PLACE. THE MOOD WAS hushed, dominated by an overpowering need to be together. Some of them were drinking, but Winter refrained, having numbed himself sufficiently after hours under the shower.

“Get as drunk as you want,” he had said when they arrived, ushering them into the dining room, where the bottles were lined up on the table.

Winter hugged Bergenhem, careful not to touch the bandage around his head, and then Martina, who had an easier time hugging him back.

They all oohed and aahed over the baby.

“What’s her name?” Djanali asked.

“ Ada,” Martina answered.

“Permit me,” Winter said, coming back with a box of Cuaba Tradicionales he’d bought at Davidoff.

“I was supposed to bring those,” Bergenhem said.

“Right,” Winter said. “But that headache of yours isn’t quite gone yet, and in the meantime I’m going to hand out these fine old cigars as tradition dictates.”

Halders poured two glasses of whisky and handed Macdonald one.

Winter was off talking to Möllerström and Bergenhem, both of whom were sipping wine. They stood by the windows and looked out at the sunset. Djanali and Martina joined them.

“There was a chance that Christian would survive,” Macdonald was explaining to Halders. “We decided right away to keep it secret. His parents knew, of course, plus anybody else who needed to, and then we just sat back and waited.”

“Jesus Christ,” Halders said. “I almost fainted when Erik came back and told us about it.”

Winter walked over from the window. He had finally broken down and poured himself a glass of wine.

“Are you actually drinking?” Macdonald asked.

“Sometimes you’ve got no choice.”

The hours passed. Ada slept in Winter’s bedroom. Macdonald told Möllerström all about HOLMES-the Holmes Office Large Major Enquiry System-and caught up on the latest developments in Sweden. Östergaard, Djanali and Martina were back at the window, glasses in hand.

Halders brooded by the clutter of bottles. He had given Macdonald the lowdown on all the recent car thefts in Gothenburg.

“In such a lovely little town?”

“We have the highest figures in the European Union,” Halders boasted.

Winter and Ringmar sat in the kitchen. Ringmar’s voice was getting ragged around the edges. A beer and half a highball were on the table in front of him.

“You’re saying there was animal blood in his apartments?” Ringmar asked.

“He’s confessed,” Winter said.

“Fucking Viking.” Ringmar picked up the beer bottle and knocked over the whisky glass. A rivulet ran toward the edge of the table. “Shit,” he said, looking around for a dishcloth.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“What a bastard.”

“He thought he’d found the ultimate kick.”

“But still…”

They fell silent and listened to the music from the living room.

“He never managed to sell the tape?” Ringmar asked.

“I think he ran out of time. Assuming that was ever his intention.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“It might not have been the most important incentive.”

“If you ask me, we’re talking about big money here,” Ringmar said. “Business is business. It’s hard to believe it wasn’t a consideration.”

“Perhaps for Vikingsson. Macdonald says he’ll find out if anybody bought the tape. He has some sources with sources of their own.”

“And Bolger had his motives too.” Ringmar avoided Winter’s eyes. “They used each other. Two madmen, coming from opposite directions.”

“I called my mother,” Winter said.

“You did what?”

“I asked her about the past twenty years. Suddenly she was razor-sharp.”

“Razor-sharp?”

“I wanted to find out about a few things I didn’t know back then, or was too young to notice, and it turns out she remembers quite a lot.”

“About you and Bolger?”

“The stuff that went on in those days. What he was like and everything that’s happened since.”

“What stuff?”

“How screwed up he was.”

“Did he really hate you that much?” It occurred to Ringmar that he wouldn’t have asked the question sober.

“I can’t answer that.”

Ringmar drank his beer.

“But he wanted to meet me on my terms,” Winter said after half a minute. “It consumed him day and night. He wanted to challenge me on my own turf. That’s the conclusion I’ve come to anyway.”

Ringmar didn’t want to talk about it any longer.

“The music has stopped,” Winter said.

“What did you say?”

“I’ll go in and put on some more.”

“What’s this?” Halders asked.

“Charlie Haden and his Quartet West,” Winter answered.

“Good stuff.”

“Yes.”

“Even though it’s jazz. They call this jazz, right?”

“Immortal music of the forties and fifties.”

“What?”

“You’re right, it’s jazz.”

Möllerström was telling Östergaard and Djanali about his last relationship. Helander held his hand to steady him.

Winter sat down on the floor next to Östergaard.

“I was just kidding,” Möllerström said. “She picked up a pebble and threw it in the water.”

“Was the moon out?” Djanali asked.

“What?”

“Was it a moonlit night?”

“I can’t remember. Anyway, I said, Did you know it took ten thousand years for that pebble to make its way up to the beach? Or something like that.”

“Oy,” Helander said.

“Was that such a terrible thing to say?”

“It’s no big deal, Janne,” Djanali assured him.

“It sure as hell was a big deal. She was angry, or hurt. Things were never the same between us after that.”

“May I borrow that album, boss?” Halders asked, coming over to them.

Winter and Östergaard took the elevator down and crossed the street to Vasaplatsen Park. The fountain was like an iron anvil in the night. When he turned around and looked up, he saw the lights shining in his apartment. He thought he glimpsed a ponytail swinging in the shadows of the balcony.

They looked for the comet and spotted it right away.

May was approaching. It never got completely dark anymore.

He picked up a pebble and threw it across the grass.

“It took ten thousand years for that pebble to make its way from the obelisk up to this bench,” she said.

“Let’s go look at it.”

“Wait a minute.”

“Why?”

“How are you doing, Erik?”

“I’m making it. Tomorrow’s another day and all that.”

“I meant how you’re feeling.”

“Better than I expected. Honestly.”

“What have you been thinking about these last few days?”

“The meaning of life, but Halders taught it to me an hour ago.”

“Just in time.”

“No kidding.”

A car passed.

“For a while there, I thought everything might be my fault. Who knows, maybe I’m indirectly responsible, but nobody could have stopped Bolger. If we hadn’t finally stumbled across a way to do it, he would have kept on going for God knows how long.”

“Yes.”

“He wanted it to continue, but he also longed for it to end.”

She let him talk.

“I think my numbness has finally worn off,” he said.

They went down and walked around the obelisk.

“Does an obelisk have six sides?” he asked.

“It could be four.”

“This one has six.”

“But it looks like one.” She strained to make out the inscription.

Wild birds plow their way through the far reaches of space.

How many never reach their final destination.

But what difference does that make?

They die free.

They walked back to the bench. She sat down and he put his head in her lap. The coolness of the earth soothed him. He heard a fluttering above them.

“Do you want to pray?” she asked.

“I’m already saying my prayers. The free association kind.”

The wings fluttered again.

“Explain it all to me,” he said.

“Later.”

“I want to know everything.”

“It’s getting warmer day by day,” she said.