Invisible Murder

HE POLICE ARE going to find us, right Mom? You can’t be kidnapped in Denmark for that long. It’s a small country. They can do all kinds of stuff with mobile phones and, and.…”

Ida’s voice was shrill, and she was searching feverishly for the right words in English as she looked dubiously from Sándor and back to Nina. Like the child of divorced parents, trying in vain to get a conversation going between mother and father.

Over on the sofa, Mr. Suburbia put an old James Bond movie into the DVD player and the sound of explosions rumbled out of the robust surround-sound system as Pierce Brosnan battled the villains. The flat screen’s stand was bent so that everything tilted precariously to the right, but it didn’t appear to detract from Mr. Suburbia’s viewing pleasure.

“Of course they’re going to find us,” Nina said calmly, in Danish. “And even if they don’t, I’ll take care of you. We’ll be all right.”

Sándor seemed to guess what Nina was saying and nodded slightly as if to support her optimistic interpretation of their situation, but their eyes met briefly over Ida’s head, and Nina saw the same conclusion in his eyes that she had reached. If they didn’t do something … unless something happened soon, Tommi and Mr. Suburbia were going to kill them. All three of them, but probably Ida last.

IDA HAD FALLEN asleep again by the time Tommi came back.

The wind had picked up outside, and Nina could hear the rain rapping against the window over the radiator. Mr. Suburbia had made himself some instant soup using the electric kettle in the kitchen and conducted a long, quiet conversation on his phone that concluded with “kissy kissy, darling.” Nina guessed he was talking to the source of the red ceramic mug on the coffee table. Frederik, that was his name, Sándor said. But she kept thinking of him as Mr. Suburbia.

A fresh James Bond movie was playing on the surround-sound system, this time one of the classics with Sean Connery, and Mr. Suburbia had put his feet up on the longer of the two sofas while he sipped his instant soup and supplemented the meal with a pack of chocolate cookies. Nina tried to figure out what time it was. They had taken her watch at the hospital, and her last accurate point of reference was when she was sitting in the car next to Tommi; the digital clock on the dashboard had said 2 P.M. when they arrived. Now a yellowish, rainy-day twilight filled the living room, and she estimated that it must be between 6 and 7 at night—she couldn’t be any more precise than that.

They didn’t hear Tommi coming until he was actually in the house, gliding through the living room door with slow, cat-like motions. He still had the broad-rimmed leather hat pulled squarely down over his forehead, and Nina could tell right away that his trip had been a success. He looked less tense and walked right over to Mr. Suburbia on the sofa, triumphantly waving a folded piece of paper.

“I got it.”

The staccato Finnish accent caused Mr. Suburbia to turn and finally lower the cacophony of exploding cars and warehouses.

“Awesome,” he said with emphasis, and for the first time since Nina had arrived at the property, he smiled enthusiastically. He stood up and tugged his shirt down over his modest potbelly. “Is that the name of the buyer?”

Tommi shook his head. “No, it’s more some kind of code, but I already cracked it. Check this out.” He unfolded the slip and pointed. “These could be dates, and these over here are phone numbers. It says text messages only.”

He had already pulled out his phone and was starting to enter numbers. Mr. Suburbia was standing next to him, looking a little sheepish as he stared at the paper. He clearly hadn’t understood the principle, which caused Tommi to switch over to a playful grin.

“Hey, dude, I’m not the accountant on this operation. Try and up your game, would you?”

He stopped his eager dialing and again let his finger run down over the paper on the table in front of them.

“Here are the different dates, and here … a new phone number for each day. This buyer is being super fucking cautious. Good for us. I’m texting to him that we’re ready to deliver the package.”

Frederik nodded, and Nina could see that he was having a hard time containing an ecstatic grin that was almost identical to the Finn’s. So. It was as trivial as that. This was about money. Probably quite a lot of money, but it was still just about the money.

Her nausea had returned and she was getting a little dizzy from being tied in the same position for such a long time. She was still thirsty, but Sándor had already asked for water once and been told no.

“Then you’ll just be needing to pee,” as Mr. Suburbia had put it. He didn’t want to have any trouble with them while Tommi was away, and now that the Finn was back, Nina didn’t want to ask. She didn’t want him to look at her, because if he did he would also notice Ida, and she wanted him to forget that Ida was here. She wanted to be invisible. For as long as possible.

The Finn went to the kitchen, came back with a beer can in his hand, and glanced briefly at James Bond, who was still playing on the crooked flat screen, without the sound now. Then he flopped down onto the love seat, most of which was taken up by the brown Lab. He slapped the dog on the nose. It raised its head and nipped playfully at the Finn’s quick fingers, but then he hit it again, slapping the dog hard first on the nose and then on the forehead with the palm of his hand. The dog wagged its tail in confusion as yet another burst of hard slaps rained down on its head.

“Yeah, you want to play? Good dog!” The Finn landed a powerful punch on the forehead of the brown Lab, which finally appreciated the seriousness of the situation. Whining, it tumbled off the edge of the sofa and crawled under the coffee table to hide.

Mr. Suburbia leapt up from the end of the sofa.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“It shouldn’t be up on the furniture,” Tommi said.

“Keep your mitts off my dog,” Mr. Suburbia shouted. “He has more right to be here than you do!”

Tommi pulled his chin in against his chest in feigned puzzlement.

“Well, well,” he said. “That wasn’t a very nice thing to say.”

His tone sent a shiver down Nina’s spine. Apparently it also had an effect on Mr. Suburbia.

“Just leave him alone,” he said, but without the aggressive undertone he had used a moment earlier.

The lack of opposition almost seemed to frustrate the Finn. His restless eyes settled on the captives below the window. Nina tried to look away. To pretend they weren’t there. But it was too late. The Finn was on his way across the living room floor, his steps quick and decisive.

“Hi, baby,” he said to Ida, who had woken up in the middle of all the yelling. “You wanna be a movie star?”

He positioned himself in front of them with his legs spread, his crotch a few centimeters from Nina’s face. She could smell some kind of cheap body shampoo mixed with nicotine and the cloying scent of fabric softener from those faded jeans. Nina looked up to meet his gaze, which caused him to pump his groin with a grin, so close that Nina reflexively pulled her head back, hitting it on the radiator behind her. This sent a little jolt through Ida. Nina prayed she was smart enough to sit still. Don’t do anything, don’t give him any excuse to touch you, she thought fervently. When driving on the roads between refugee camps around Dadaab, she had learned from the local women how to avoid trouble. Avoid drawing attention to yourself. Even the most hardened men liked to have an excuse when they committed rape. The girl with the defiant look and contempt in her voice was chosen first.

“Go away,” Ida said. “Leave my mom alone.”

Shut up, sweetheart, Nina thought. It’s not your job to defend me!

Tommi smiled, a warm and disconcertingly normal smile.

“Man, are you cute,” he said. “I think it’s going to be a really good movie.”

He squatted down in front of her and slid his hand down the front of her shirt.

“Leave her alone.” Nina spoke quietly, with the same amount of emphasis on each syllable. No more than that. Not enough opposition to provoke him.

“Fucking let go of me,” Ida hissed, trying to bite his hand.

No. No, Ida. Not like that!

The Finn’s breathing had changed, and Nina could see his hand moving under the cotton fabric of Ida’s T-shirt. Ida gasped, popped up onto her knees and awkwardly tried to wriggle away from him. Nina grabbed the only chance she could see. She slammed her fist upward, straight into his crotch, with everything she had.

She didn’t hit him dead on, but still accurately enough that he staggered back a step moaning, with both hands over his crotch. As he stood like that, Sándor somehow managed to flip himself up on his hands, the bound healthy one and the wounded free one, and kick backward with both legs, bucking like a horse.

One of his heels hit the Finn in the face, right on his swollen black-and-blue nose. Tommi bellowed and kicked Sándor in the thigh, but Nina wasn’t sure the Hungarian even noticed it. He was already doubled over, clutching his wounded hand, which had started bleeding again. A bruise on his thigh was probably the least of his concerns.

“Knock it off!” Mr. Suburbia shouted. Under the coffee table, the Labrador was barking furiously, although it showed no desire to get involved in the fight.

“I’ll kill him,” Tommi said. “This time I’ll fucking kill him!” He grabbed for the fringed cowboy jacket he had tossed over the back of one sofa, but Mr. Suburbia beat him to it. He snatched the jacket and pulled something out of one of the pockets. A gun, of course. Nina was surprised only that it wasn’t a gleaming silver six-shooter, but a dull black modern affair with a barrel that wasn’t more than twelve or thirteen centimeters long.

“Give me that,” Tommi hissed.

“Just knock it off, damnit.” Mr. Suburbia said, looking irritated. Like a father interrupted in the middle of the evening news by a fight between his kids. “Are you coming totally unglued? First Tyson and now this? No more trouble now. You hear me?”

“But.…” Tommi flung out his arms as if he were about to protest, and Nina was half expecting him to say that the others had started it.

Just then there was a pling from another pocket of the fringed jacket. Frederik awkwardly put down the pistol on the coffee table and pulled out the phone.

“It’s from him,” Frederik said. “It’s going to be tonight. Nine-thirty. But he won’t send the address until later.” He looked up at Tommi again. “We’re so close. Quit thinking with your cock. I want things low-key now. Smooth. That other stuff is going to have to wait.”

The Finn shot Nina, Ida, and Sándor a collective angry look.

“Fine,” Tommi said. “Then you can be the fucking babysitter.”

The Finn flipped a defiant fuck-you finger at them all and vanished into the blue video room, presumably to relieve his frustration in the company of eighteen-year-old Sabrina.

Nina looked at Ida. There was barely suppressed panic in her dark eyes, and her bound arm was moving incessantly in an involuntary twitch.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Nina lied. “Nothing’s going to happen. I’m here.”