Mind's eye

40

The turnaround came with the twelve o’clock news.

He’d slept for three hours in a parking lot. Curled up under a blanket on the backseat, and woken up because he felt cold.

Before driving off he’d switched on the radio, caught the middle of the news, and heard that he was wanted by the police.

Nationwide alert. Carl Ferger. Suspected of three murders.

Traveling in a blue Fiat, registration number. .

He switched it off. For a few seconds, time and the world stood still. Blood was pounding hard in his temples. His hands grasped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

He’d been rumbled. Was wanted by the police.

Hunted.

He was on the run.

It took a while for it to sink in.

Three murders?

He couldn’t help laughing.

Which ones, he could ask them. Yes, he’d try to remember to ask them that, if they caught up with him. Excuse me, you fucking police bastard, he’d say. I’ve committed six murders.

Which three am I suspected of?

The windows had misted over from his breath. He wiped them clean with his handkerchief. Opened the driver’s window slightly, looked around. The parking lot was empty, apart from one long-distance truck some fifty meters ahead of him.

A blue Fiat. . Oh, fuck! Why had he turned off the radio?

He switched it on again, but there was only music.

What else did they know?

Where did they think he was?

Nationwide alert. What did that mean? Roadblocks?

Hardly. He’d driven more than 300 kilometers since leaving Maardam. If they knew roughly when he’d left, they must realize that he could be more or less anywhere by now.

But how?

How the hell had they found him out?

He started the car. Drove slowly past the truck and onto the freeway.

It must have been Liz. That fucking whore. Something had gone wrong, but he didn’t understand how they could link her with the others. The bitch! If only he’d listened to his inner voice from the start. . The voice that had warned him, told him to steer well clear of her, of that tart. That fucking bitch.

Nothing more than a fucking bitch.

He would never repeat that mistake, at least. And let’s face it, it was only reasonable for the police to agree that he’d performed a public service in ridding society of the likes of Liz Hennan. He’d nothing to reproach himself with in her case.

The others were not so good. They’d been driven by a different kind of necessity. But now wasn’t the time to sit back and take stock.

Action was called for now. Something had clicked-he’d sensed it coming, hadn’t he? His intuition had saved him yet again-why else would he have run away? It was just the same as it had been with Ellen. .

Ellen. That was twelve years ago now. She’d also been a tart, no doubt about that. A disgusting little tart, just like Liz.

He could see them both in his mind’s eye, just as horny, just as desperate for it. .

He stepped on the gas. Saw from the gauge that he’d soon need to fill up. Why did he keep seeing them? Their naked bodies, their quivering pussies. . He had no time to waste on them now. He must get a grip of essentials, not dillydally with these disgusting images. He must be ready. Must be on his toes, do the right thing, and it was urgent now.

Wanted by the police.

He checked his watch. Only a quarter past twelve. Was that message he’d heard the first one, or had there been several more, earlier? Better keep the radio on, so that he didn’t miss anything.

He switched it on, and lit a cigarette. Hardly any of those left, either.

Fill up and buy cigarettes, that was the most urgent thing.

Then?

The radio? he thought. What about the television? Newspapers? Had they published a photo of him?

Would he be as easily recognized as the president the moment he entered the gas station kiosk?

The telly wasn’t such a problem, he thought. Nobody sat gaping at the box in the mornings. The newspapers were worse.

But the morning papers hadn’t carried anything-not the one he’d bought earlier on, at least. They’d reported the murder, of course; but not a word about Carl Ferger in a blue Fiat.

It would be in the evening papers, naturally. A photo on the billboards, perhaps. Like when a government minister had been murdered a few years ago.

He couldn’t help smiling. When did the first edition generally hit the streets?

Two? Half past?

Before then he needed to have become somebody else.

It was as easy as that. He must get to a decent-sized town as soon as possible, and fix some kind of disguise. A pity that he’d dumped the wig-although they’d know about that, no doubt. What else?

The car.

Get rid of it and hire another?

He didn’t like that idea. It would involve obvious risks. He decided to take a chance and carry on in the Fiat. As long as he was careful to park somewhere out of the way, he should be okay. Spread a lot of shit over the number plates, perhaps.

There must be thousands of blue Fiats all over the country.

But then what?

The question grabbed hold of him, and kept him trapped in its iron grip for several seconds. Threatened to choke him.

What the hell should he do after that?

This evening? Tonight? Tomorrow?

He swallowed and stepped even harder on the gas. Suppressed the question. He needed to take things one at a time.

First his appearance, then he could make decisions as things developed. That was his strength, after all. His instinctive ability to make the right decision at the critical moment. Money, for instance. He’d emptied his account as early as the previous Saturday. They’d have frozen it by now, of course, but so what? He had enough to last him for a few weeks, at least.

Don’t do anything rash. Everything was under control.

They wouldn’t catch him this time, either, the bastards. The thought of lounging around in some obscure little hotel for a few days made him smile again. Reading about the hunt in the newspapers, sitting in the communal television room every evening, hearing about how the hunt for him was going. .

Next exit Malbork, 1,000 meters, he read on the signs.

Excellent.

He signaled he was about to turn off, and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.