Postcard killers

Chapter 113

Tuesday, June 22

Oslo, Norway

The motor home was in a campsite just outside the city. The police cordon had been lifted from the entrance to the site but was stil in place around the vehicle.

Dessie pul ed the zipper on her Windbreaker up snug and tight under her chin.

The campsite was almost empty, and not just because of the weather. The Italians' motor home was al alone in its section of the site, like a leprous metal box whose neighbors had fled in panic.

She went closer.

Drifts of dead insects were stil littering the insides of the windows. They covered the bottom third of the screens.

She pul ed the hood over her head. A stiff gale was blowing in from the Oslo fjord just below, sharp as needles.

It was the flies that had let on that something was wrong inside the Italians' motor home. The people in the neighboring tents had complained about the buzzing, and eventual y also about the smel. 150 The owner of the site, a man named Olsen, hadn't been too bothered. The Italians were paying for their patch on account, and he wasn't fussy. If people wanted to keep flies as pets, he wasn't about to stop them.

When the police eventual y arrived, the windows were completely covered in swarms of black insects. They were as thick as curtains.

It was estimated that the bodies had been there for over a month.

Dessie pul ed out the copy of the Polaroid picture, taken before the flies had started to lay eggs.

The wind tore at the sheet of paper, and she had to hold it with both hands.

The letter and postcard had only been found the previous morning. The reporter the kil ers had chosen had gone away on vacation the day the card was posted. No one had been checking his mail.

When he returned to work at the paper, he found both the postcard, TO BE OR NOT TO BE, and the photograph Dessie now had before her.

Antonio Bonino and Emma Vendola had been on a driving tour of Europe, and had arrived in Oslo on the morning of May 17. They wanted to experience Norway's national day, the celebrations when the Norwegians mark the anniversary of their country's independence.

Emma worked as a secretary at a PR agency. Antonio was studying to be a dentist. They had been married for two years.

She looked at the victims' picture again.

Their hands had been placed close to their faces, the palms to their ears.

The kil ers had stuffed two pairs of black tights in their mouths, giving the faces a grotesque expression of pain and horror.

She had recognized the work of art immediately, and it was famous.

Edvard Munch's The Scream, a painting that had become world-famous to a new generation as the logo for the horror movie Scream.

Dessie could feel her eyes wel ing up. She didn't know if it was because of the wind or the thought of the dead couple.

They had been saving up to buy this vehicle ever since they got married.

Six bunks, so there would be room for the children when they came along.

Did they have time to feel afraid?

Did they feel any pain?

She turned away from the motor home and walked toward the exit, not wanting to think about the dead anymore.

Instead she conjured up Jacob's image. His messy hair, the crumpled suede jacket, the sparkling blue eyes. He hadn't been in touch.

He'd disappeared from her life as though he'd never been there.

This past week could have been a dream, or, rather, a nightmare, in which her whole life had been turned upside down by forces she had no control over.

Dessie shivered.

She stopped by the exit and turned around to look back at the abandoned campsite.

Wil owy birch trees bent beneath the wind; the water down below was gray with geese. The cordon around the motor home flapped in the wind.

The Rudolphs could have been responsible for these murders.

They hadn't been arrested yet in the middle of May.