He Who Fears The Wolf

CHAPTER 19

A forest worker turned his red Massey Ferguson tractor on to the plateau, heading for the short stretch of forest road where he intended to park. Surprised, he stared at the green tarpaulin, then switched off the engine and got down.

He shoved the smooth green fabric off the roof of the car and peered inside. Empty. Except for a little pill bottle with a screw-on lid lying on the floor in the front. He opened the door, picked it up, and read the label. Trilafon, 25 milligrams, three times a day. For someone named Errki Johrma, prescribed by Dr S. Struel. A small, white, abandoned car. Unlocked. He remembered something about a bank robbery that morning; it had been on the news. The car was a Renault Mégane. He went back to his tractor, swung it around again, and set course for home.

Less than an hour later two cars drove up to the plateau. Five men and three dogs spilled out. The three excited Alsatians were immediately growling and whining. A five-year-old male named Sharif was first, followed by Nero, who was a little smaller and a lighter colour. He was just as agitated as Sharif, tugging on his lead. The third dog had a shaggier coat and moved more steadily than the others. His name was Zeb, and his handler was Ellmann. Every time they went out on patrol together, he wondered if it might be the last time. He looked down at the dog's dark head. It was almost time to retire him, and he didn't know if he had the energy to train a new dog. It seemed to him that after Zeb, any other animal would be a disappointment.

The starting point was not ideal. The dry, crackling forest from which all moisture had evaporated would not hold on to scents for long.

Sharif leaped inside the car. He sniffed at the driver's seat and the floor, at the carpet beside the rubber mats, then at the passenger's seat, his tail wagging. He came back out and began sniffing at the dry ground, continuing to wag his tail vigorously, then started down the path. The other dogs did the same, repeating the procedure. The men stared at the dense woods and locked their cars. The dogs stared at their masters, waiting for the magic words that would release them.

All five men had guns. The hard weight at their belts was both comforting and frightening. The assignment was an exhilarating one for the dog handlers. This was what they had pictured when they joined the police force as young recruits, before applying for the dog patrol. All three were mature men. If being between 30 and 40 could be considered mature, as Sejer had said wryly. They had hunted for many different things during their years of service, and been successful many times. They loved the peace of the woods, the not knowing, the work with the dogs. The sound of panting dogs, of twigs breaking, of rustling leaves, the buzzing of thousands of insects. All of their senses were on high alert, their eyes fixed on the ground, taking in the smallest detail: a cigarette end, a snapped twig, or the remains of a fire. Studying the dogs, the way their tails moved, whether they were wagging briskly or were suddenly lowered, stopping altogether. At the same time they were waiting to hear something from Headquarters: word that the two had been found elsewhere, perhaps. Or that the bank robber had struck again, that the hostage had been found in good condition or lying in a ditch with his skull split open. Anything was possible. It was the not knowing that excited them; no two days were alike. They might find someone hanging from a tree. Or sitting under a tree trunk, exhausted but happy to be discovered. Or dead from an overdose. And afterwards, the release. The eased tension. But this time it was something different. Two individuals in flight, and most likely desperate.

Track!

The magic word! The dogs were instantly attentive. For a few seconds they meandered around at the start of the path. But very rapidly they set off, focused on one thing only: following the scent they had picked up in the car. Ellmann whispered: "No doubt about it, they have picked up the trail."

The others nodded. The dogs pulled them up the slope, their muscles straining. All three animals were on it, with Sharif in the lead. The men panted after them, hot in their overalls. The three dogs stayed together. They had been given plenty of water before they set off, and they had an endurance that the men could only envy. The men were in good condition; working with the dogs had seen to that – years of strenuous training. But the cursed heat was sapping their energy. How far could the two fugitives have gone?

The woods looked dead, as if crying out for water. The men had maps and knew where the paths led and the location of the old homesteads. One of the men stuck his hand in his pocket, looking for chewing gum. He kept his eyes on Nero. The dog swung his nose from side to side, every so often taking a detour, making a little circle, as if he wanted to turn around. But then he kept on going. Sharif was still in the lead. The fur on his head and back was black, his coat looked thick and shiny in the fading sunlight. His tail was like a big golden banner, and his paws were broad and powerful. None of the men could imagine anything more beautiful than a well-groomed Alsatian. An Alsatian was the perfect dog, the way a dog ought to look.

After 15 minutes they changed places and let Zeb go first. The competitive instinct was immediately aroused, and the dogs intensified their efforts. Even so, they began to waver, their tails started to sink, they no longer sniffed so eagerly. At first Nero and Sharif pressed on, but then wanted to turn back. The men took their time, seizing the opportunity to rest a little after the difficult climb. They were up on a ridge. From here they could look down at the main road and the barrier beside the toll booth.

"Bet they stopped here to rest," Sejer said in a low voice.

The others nodded. They had stood here and looked down at the barrier and the squad car. And then they had gone on. But in which direction?

"Here's a cigarette end."

Skarre picked it up. "Roll-your-own. Big Ben paper."

He slipped it inside a plastic bag and put it in his pocket, then kept on searching, but found nothing more.

"Let's keep Zeb in the lead, and let the others reconnoitre," Ellmann suggested.

Nero and Sharif began sweeping the area from side to side, covering a range of about 50 metres. Zeb trotted on, sticking to the path. The scent was unclear. The dogs no longer seemed so keen, pausing now and then, acting distracted. The men looked back. Not down to the farm where the murdered woman lived. Maybe up to the old homestead sites? In this heat it seemed most likely that the fugitives had stopped to rest in one of the old mountain huts. If so, the dogs would find their trail up there, stronger than in this dry terrain.

It was abnormally quiet in the woods. In the autumn there was much more activity, with hunters and berry pickers. But right now it was too hot for anyone to be taking a walk in the woods unless they had to. Or were being paid to, and were plagued by an incurable lust for adventure that coursed through their veins like tiny little ants and gave them no peace.

Sejer ran his hand over his forehead and then checked his gun. At the shooting range he was a good shot, but he realised that would not mean very much if it came to a live exchange of fire. And that made him uneasy. A single error in judgement could have disastrous consequences. Suspension. Disability. Death. Anything could happen. For some reason he was feeling vulnerable, as if life had taken on more meaning. He forced the thoughts out of his mind and strode briskly on, casting a glance at Skarre, who had pulled down the peak of his cap to keep out the sun.

"God only knows what's happened to that poor man from the asylum," Sejer murmured.

"In my mind there's as much of a case for worrying about the other chap," said Skarre.

"We don't know that he killed her, only that he was there."

Skarre was wearing steel-rimmed glasses with clip-on sunglasses. "Take a look around," he said. "Not very populated up here, is it?"

"I only mention it to keep the facts straight. Let's just say that their positions are equal."

"Except that one of them has a gun," Skarre said.

They kept walking. Nero and Sharif circled round and round on either side. Now they plodded through dense thickets, and in other places paths led them through clearings. Hot blood pumped through their bodies. The light was beautiful, a luxuriant gold, and the many hues of green in the trees were astonishing. Dark and intense in the shade, golden-yellow out in the open. Leaves and boughs everywhere flicking thorns that pricked at them, grass that caressed their legs, branches that snapped back and struck them in the face. Insects landed on them, but the men soon gave up slapping at these pests because it wasted too much energy. Only once did Skarre wave his hand at an angry wasp that was trying to fly into his curls.

A while later they stopped at a trickling stream to let the dogs drink. The men splashed the cool water on their faces and necks. The dogs were still preoccupied with the scent, perhaps the more impatient because it was faint. Tenacious and eager still, never willing to give up as people might be if the fugitives turned out to have gone a long way. Maybe they were lying in the shade somewhere, resting, with their legs dangling in one of the small ponds. The idea of a cool dip began to pass from one mind to another. It was idiotic, but once the idea presented itself, they had no peace. Ice-cold, rippling water. The thought of submerging their burning-hot bodies, of rubbing the sweat out of their hair.

"In Vietnam," Ellmann said suddenly, "when the Americans hiked through the bush in the heat of the day, their brains would start to boil under their helmets."

"Boil? Good God." Sejer shook his head.

"They were never the same again."

"They wouldn't have been the same, no matter what. But honestly," he turned to looked at the others, "do you really believe that's possible?"

"Of course not."

"You're not a doctor either, are you?" Sejer said and mopped his brow before putting on his cap again.

The men chuckled quietly. The dogs were not disturbed by the conversation. They kept on going, occasionally sticking their noses into the weeds along the path, but they did not stop. They were making slow progress, but they stuck to the path, and the men guessed that the fugitives had preferred to stay on it, rather than veer off into the dense woodland.

"We'll find them," Sejer said grimly.

"One thing that strikes me," Ellmann said, sighing as he followed Zeb with his eyes, "is the tragic nature of a man's destiny."

"What are you babbling about?" Skarre turned around.

"Testosterone. It's what makes men so aggressive. Testosterone, right?"

"And?"

"Well, that's why we almost never go searching for women on these assignments. Just think how scantily dressed they would be in this heat!"

Sejer made a low clucking sound. Then he thought about Sara. About the light rings around her pupils.

Skarre noticed the sudden shift in his expression. "Worried, Konrad?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

Their mood was still positive. A small plane appeared way up in the blue sky, white and shiny in the sunlight. Sejer stared at it for a long time. Up there it was cool and airy. In his mind he was on board the plane with a parachute on his back. He opened the door, paused for a moment to look down. Then he threw himself out and plummeted for a while before he began to float comfortably on a column of air.

"Do you see that, Jacob?" Sejer turned around and pointed.

Skarre stared unhappily at the plane. His imagination began working overtime.

"Does anyone have a mirror?"

Morgan tried to focus on his nose, looking very cross-eyed.

"He who has friends doesn't need a mirror," Errki mumbled from over by the cupboard.

Morgan looked at Kannick. "The fellow's got a quick tongue, hasn't he? It's hard to believe."

"I think I have one in my bow case," Kannick said. He was still afraid to look Errki in the eye. Maybe he was sitting there deciding on a horrible way to kill him. He had such a strange look on his face.

"Go and get it, Errki," Morgan told him.

Errki didn't reply. He was still feeling pleasantly drowsy, tired in a good way. Morgan gave up and went out to the steps where the case stood and dragged it back inside along with the bow. He rummaged through the arrows and other equipment and found the mirror. A little square mirror, about ten by ten centimetres. Hesitantly he held it up to his face.

"Oh, fucking hell! That's the worst goddamn thing I've ever seen!"

Kannick hadn't thought about the fact that Morgan hadn't seen his own nose. And it was true. It did look awful.

"It's infected, Errki. I knew it!" He started pacing, holding up the mirror.

"The whole world is infected," Errki muttered. "Sickness, death and misery."

"How long does it take for tetanus to set in?" Morgan wondered out loud. His hand shook so hard that the mirror swayed.

"Several days," suggested Kannick.

"Are you sure about that? Do you know about these things?"

"Not really."

Morgan sighed like a sullen child and threw down the mirror. The sight of his nose was about to strip him of his courage. It didn't hurt much any more, and he didn't feel so sick either. Just listless, but that was due to other things, like the lack of food and water. It was important to think about something else. He looked at Kannick and narrowed his eyes.

"So you were a witness to a murder, huh? Tell me about it. What do you think happened?"

Kannick's eyes widened. "No," he said. "I wasn't a witness."

"You weren't? On the radio they said you were."

Kannick ducked his head and whispered. "I just saw him running away."

"And is that man present in the courtroom? Raise your hand and point him out for the jury," said Morgan theatrically.

Kannick clasped his hands on his lap. Not on his life would he point at Errki.

"Did you have to go blabbing to the police?"

"I didn't blab. They asked me if I saw anything. I just answered their questions," he said.

Morgan had to bend forward to hear what the boy was saying. "Now don't try to wriggle out of it. It's obvious that you blabbed. Did you know the old woman?"

"Yes."

Errki had his head tilted to one side. He looked as if he were asleep.

"He couldn't help it," Morgan said. "He's all mixed up in the head."

"Mixed up?"

"He doesn't even remember it."

"He doesn't?"

"Maybe he doesn't even remember that I took him hostage when I robbed Fokus Bank this morning."

He gave the boy an amused look. "He was standing there so conveniently in the bank, and I needed him to help me escape. Do you know what?" Morgan chuckled. "Robbing a bank and taking a hostage is like buying an Easter egg with a prize inside. Some people are lucky and get a whole toy. But I just got a bunch of separate pieces to put together."

He had forgotten about his nose. "He doesn't remember anything. And besides, he just does what his inner voices tell him to do. I doubt you can understand that, but I feel sorry for Errki."

Morgan sat back down on the floor and looked at Kannick with a serious expression. "You know what? When I was a child, I went to a nursery school. And every morning we had school assembly. We had to sit in a circle on the floor while one of the teachers read or sang. We had a game that was all about trying to catch a thought. The teacher would look deep into our eyes and whisper, 'Think about something!' And we would think really hard. Then she'd scream, 'Catch it, catch it!' And she'd reach her hand out into the air as if she were gathering up one of them. And we would do the same thing."

Morgan paused. "'Hold on to it!' she'd shout, and we'd hold on tight, terrified that it would fly away. And it did. Because when we opened our hands, there was nothing there. Just dirt and sweat. I suppose it was meant to be an exercise in concentration, but it just made us feel terrible. Grown-ups do so many damned strange things to children."

He shook his head in resignation at the thought. "Errki has the same problem. Either he's confused and can't hold on to his thoughts, or else he thinks the same thing over and over again. It's called obsessing. I know about problems like this; I worked with those kinds of people."

They could hear Errki grunting.

"Do you know why he bit me on the nose?"

"I have no idea," Kannick whimpered.

"I wanted him to take a swim down there, and he refused. He can't swim. He doesn't like people to nag him. You shouldn't nag him or, in the twinkling of an eye, he'll be hanging on to your ear, or worse."

"Can I go now?"

Kannick's voice was as thin as a thread. He spoke as softly as he could so that Errki wouldn't hear him.

Morgan rolled his eyes. "Can you go now? Why the hell do you think you should? Are we going to let you get off more easily than us? Did you do anything to earn that? This is our destiny," he said solemnly. "We're trapped here, waiting for the police to come and lock us up. But we refuse to give ourselves up. We're proud and brave, and we won't give up without a fight."

Morgan's voice was full of drunken pathos. He talks like Geronimo, Kannick thought. Errki wasn't the only one who was off his head. They were both mad. Maybe he was mad too. It wasn't easy to tell, when it came down to it. But he was living in a reform school, after all, not in a nuthouse. Or was it a nuthouse? He felt appallingly sick and tried to gulp back the sensation that something woollen was growing in his throat. In a certain way, he belonged here with these two men. He knew that.

"Is your mother still alive?" Morgan asked abruptly. He had pulled Kannick's arrow out of the wall and was studying it.

"I think so," the boy said glumly.

"Now, hold on a minute," Morgan snapped. "Are you really that bitter? Don't try to tell me that you don't know whether she's alive or dead. My mother's alive. She's on the dole. And I have a sister who runs a beauty parlour."

"So she should be able to fix your nose."

"Cut the sarcasm. She's doing really well. Is your mother alive, Kannick?"

"Yes."

"At the government's expense?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, does she have a job, or is she on the dole?"

"I don't really know."

"Does she send you money?"

"Just packages once in a while."

"Here's a tip, for the next time you have a birthday. Ask for a package of Slimfast."

Kannick had no idea what Slimfast was. He sat there thinking about his mother, whom he seldom saw. She only came if Margunn rang and nagged her to. Usually she brought him chocolate. It was hard for him to remember what she looked like; they didn't even talk much. His mother didn't really look at him, she just gave him furtive glances, and then she'd cringe and look away in sheer fright. Suddenly he thought of something that had happened a long time ago. He had come home from school one day, stopped in the doorway of the kitchen and stared at his mother. She looked different. Her hair had grown a whole lot longer, all in one day, in the few hours he'd been sitting at his desk.

"Did you get a wig?" he asked.

She tossed aside the newspaper she was reading and reluctantly turned to look at him. "No, I didn't. This is genuine hair that's been attached."

"Huh?" He was so surprised that he sat right down at the table. It wasn't only her hair, either. Her fingernails were long too, dark red and bright as the paint on a shiny new car.

"What do you mean 'attached'?" he asked with genuine curiosity. "Is it glued on?"

"Yes. It'll hold for weeks."

She swept her hair back, fanning it out to demonstrate for him. This new mane of hair had given her a new dignity. Her expression was different, she held her back straighter, carried herself like a queen.

The temptation was too great. Kannick lunged across the table and with a dirty hand grabbed a hank of hair and pulled. It didn't budge. It was unbelievable.

"You idiot!" she shrieked, jumping up from the table. "Do you realise how much this cost?"

"You said that it was stuck on."

"And you just had to try to ruin it, didn't you?"

"Who did it?"

"My hairdresser."

"How much did it cost?" he asked sullenly.

"You'd like to know, wouldn't you? But that's none of your business. You don't have any money."

"No. Not even pocket money."

"What do you need pocket money for? You never do anything for me!"

"You never ask me to."

"What exactly can you do, Kannick?"

Suddenly she leaned across the table and gave him a challenging look. "Is there anything you can do, Kannick?"

He picked at a drop of dried jam on the tablecloth. He couldn't think of anything, not a single thing. He wasn't good at reading, and he was terrible at sports. No-one could beat him at darts, but he didn't mention that.

Later, when she was in the shower with her new hair tucked up under a plastic shower cap, he peeked inside her handbag. He knew there wouldn't be any money. She was smarter than Margunn, and she'd taken her money into the shower with her. But he found the receipt from the hairdresser's. It was hard for him to decipher the grown-up handwriting, but for once he made an effort. Hair and nails, 2,300 kroner, paid in full. He felt as though he couldn't breathe. Went roaring into the bathroom and tore the shower curtain aside.

"That was enough for a bicycle!" he shouted. "All the other children have bikes!"

She pulled the curtain back into place.

"Hair grows all by itself," he yelled, "and it's free!"

"Leave my things alone," she shouted back. "You need a father who can discipline you. I'll never get my hands on a proper man if I look like a witch. I have to make myself look good. It's all for your sake."

He could see the outline of her body through the shower curtain. It would be an effort to get her out of there, if he really wanted to. He could go over to the sink and run the cold water. Then the water in the shower would be so hot that she'd scorch herself. But he didn't feel like it. That was an old trick.

Kannick felt quite exhausted. He rested his forehead against his knees and sighed. He was hungry too. The others had eaten all of his chocolate. But his thoughts were still pulling him back to the past. Once he had come home before his mother and found the box of drain cleaner inside the bench cupboard. He had a sudden, funny idea. He knew quite well how it worked: tiny, round, bluish-white beads that were sprinkled over the drain in the sink when it blocked, which was all the time. Contact with water turned the beads into a corrosive, foul-smelling gas. He had found an empty milk carton, rinsed it out thoroughly, and dried it carefully. Then he sprinkled a generous quantity of beads in the bottom and went into the bathroom. He lifted up the grating from the drain in the shower, put the carton inside, and replaced the grating. He'd never forget his mother's howl when she went to take a shower. She turned on the hot water, and poisonous gas filled the whole cubicle. She came storming out, coughing and spluttering, while she screamed the ugliest curses she could think of, and there were plenty. He had created his own gas chamber!

Morgan interrupted his thoughts. "What else have you got in that case?" he asked. "Do you have anything I could use as a bandage?"

Kannick thought for a moment. He had had different kinds of arrow. An extra bow string. A bag of nocks with a tube of glue. String wax. Pliers. And a cotton cloth for the sight.

"A cotton cloth," he said.

"Is it big enough for my nose?"

Kannick glanced up at the discoloured stump. "Yes."

Morgan stood up at once and walked over to the case. The cloth was yellow and fuzzy, the kind that was used to polish glasses.

Kannick looked at him. "You'll get lint in it."

"I don't give a shit. I want something to cover it. I can feel air in the wound every time I move my head, and I don't like it. I see you've got tape here, so I'll use that too. Give me a hand!" he said, waving the cotton cloth.

Kannick struggled a bit, but he did the best he could with his thick fingers, laying the cloth over Morgan's nose, and biting off a piece of tape with his teeth. It was on good and tight.

"That's attractive," he said.

"So let's party!" Morgan said hoarsely, grabbing the bottle. "With a bottle and a girl, you lose track of all time!" He winked at Kannick.

Errki was asleep. Morgan looked odd with the yellow cloth on his nose. It's like the one my mother wore on the first sunny days of spring, Kannick thought, to stop her nose from getting burned when she sunbathed behind the house. She had lain there with her legs apart so the sun could reach every inch of skin. Sometimes he would spy on her. He could see a little bit of the dark curly hair up there. That's where the Polish man had been, and that's where he had been created. It wasn't something his mother had told him in so many words, but he knew it. He tried to remember the exact moment when this fact became apparent to him, but it was no good.

He thought about Karsten and Philip, and wondered whether they were out looking for him. What if they showed up here at the house? Maybe they would storm straight in! Every once in a while he looked at the two men, wondering what they had talked about. He couldn't really see that Errki was a hostage, since he was the one with the gun, and it didn't seem as if that bothered Morgan. He reached for the bottle and took a gulp, then handed it back. The whisky no longer burned his throat. He was almost anaesthetised. His body was numb and felt strangely oddly sluggish. He had to get away before he fell asleep.

"Can I go now?" he begged in a humble voice, addressing Errki in the corner.

"Errki will decide," Morgan said curtly. "He's the one in charge in this house, and right now he's asleep. You'll just have to keep me company. A meatball like you can keep me going for a long time." He snorted.

They were both beginning to feel very drunk. Morgan could no longer remember what he was doing here or what his plans were. He liked the quiet room, which was surprisingly dark compared to the dazzling light outside, and he liked listening to Errki breathing over by the wardrobe. People shouldn't have plans at all. Or appointments to keep. They should just sit still and let their thoughts drift. The fat boy sitting near him had slumped a little on the floor. There wasn't a sound from outside, no birds, not even a tree rustling. The whisky was going fast. That worried him a bit. In a few hours he would be sober again. Sooner or later he would have to pull his heavy, lethargic body up off the floor and do something. But he had no idea what that would be. He had money, but no energy to leave the house and go back to the road or try to escape. He had no friends, except for the one who was in jail for robbing a post office and would soon be paroled. Morgan had driven the getaway car. They barely managed to escape and had parted company as soon as they reached safety. Two days later his friend was caught, arrested because of the pictures from the robbery that were shown on TV. The idiot had debts, and someone got their revenge. He had hidden the gun, somewhere in the woods he'd said, but they found the money in his flat. He hadn't told the police about Morgan. It was so amazing, really incredible, that he had withstood the pressure and taken the punishment all alone. No-one had ever done anything like that for Morgan before! Only afterwards did it come creeping over him, the feeling of being eternally indebted. And later, the little hint in the visitors' room.

"When I get out, I won't have anything. Can you do something about that?"

Robbing Fokus Bank was only the beginning. A hundred thousand kroner, half for each of them, wouldn't last long. He knew his friend, knew his habits and his thirst. As soon as the money was gone, he'd be back. Perhaps it would have been better if the police had caught him too, Morgan thought. There was a low buzzing in his brain. Maybe he was going mad, just like Errki. This was the first voice: an insect flying in circles inside, trying to get out.