Punishment aka What Is Mine

FIFTY-SEVEN

Karsten Åsli did his best to convince himself that he had nothing to fear.

“Routine,” he said with determination, and just about tripped. “Routine. Rou-ti-ne. Rou-ti-ne.”

His sneakers were wet and the sweat was running down into his eyes. He tried to dry his forehead on his sleeve, but it was already damp from the dew on the trees that he brushed past.

Adam Stubo had seen nothing. He had heard nothing. He couldn’t have seen anything that would arouse suspicion. For God’s sake, the guy said it himself: it was a routine call because they had to check up on everyone who had ever had anything to do with the families. Of course it was routine. The police thought they already knew who they were after. The papers wrote about little else: The Great Manhunt.

Karsten Åsli picked up speed. He had nearly lost control. Adam Stubo was smart. Even though he wasn’t as good at lying as Karsten had imagined the police to be, he was sly. Turid had been terrified at the time. Terrified that Lasse would find out. Frightened of her mother. Frightened of her mother-in-law. Frightened of everything. When Adam claimed that Turid had said they knew each other, he was lying. But Karsten had still nearly lost control.

Adam Stubo should never have asked him if he had children.

Up to that point, Karsten had felt like he was drowning. But when Stubo asked about children, it was like having a life raft thrown to him. The seas calmed down. Land was in sight.

The child. The boy. He would be three on June 19. The day on which his plan would be completed. Nothing is random in this world.

The stream was big now, swollen by spring, nearly a small river.

He stopped and gasped for breath. He took off his backpack and took out the box of potassium. He had filled a small plastic bag beforehand with only a few grams, which was more than enough for the last assignment. He’d done it outdoors, of course. Karsten Åsli knew perfectly well that even a millimole of the stuff could undo him. Not that the police would check for it, but Karsten operated with safety margins all the way. He had never opened the container indoors.

The powder dissolved in the water. Milk water. It ran downstream and the solution became weaker, more diluted and transparent. Eventually, one and a half yards from where he stood, there was nothing left. He carefully broke the box up against a stone. Then he lit a small fire. He had dry wood shavings in his bag. The cardboard box didn’t burn very well, but when he tore a whole newspaper to shreds and put it on the fire, it finally caught. When it had burned down, he stamped on the ashes.

He’d bought the potassium in Germany over seven months ago. Just to be on the safe side, he’d grown a full beard for three weeks before going into the pharmacy on the outskirts of Hamburg. He shaved off his beard the same evening, in a cheap motel, before driving to Kiel to get the ferry home.

Now the potassium was gone, apart from what he needed on June 19.

Karsten Åsli felt relieved. It only took a quarter of an hour to jog home.

As he stood on the step stretching, he realized that he hadn’t seen Emilie for several days now. Yesterday, before Stubo turned up, he had decided to give her her last meal. She had to go. But he hadn’t decided how yet. After Stubo’s visit he would have to be even more careful than planned. Emilie would have to wait a few days, at least. She had water down there and didn’t eat anything anyway. There was no need to go down into the cellar.

No need at all. He smiled and got ready for work.

The man had disappeared. He no longer existed.

She was thirsty all the time. There was water in the tap. She tried to get up. Her legs were so thin now. She tried to walk. She couldn’t, even when she used the wall to support herself.

The man had disappeared. Maybe Daddy had killed him. Daddy must have found him and cut him up into small pieces. But Daddy didn’t know she was here. He would never find her.

Her thirst was raging. Emilie crawled to the sink. Then she leaned up against the wall and turned on the water. The underpants fell to her ankles. They were boy’s underpants, even though the fly had been sewn up. She drank.

Her clothes were still lying folded beside the bed. She staggered back, just managing to walk now. The underpants were left lying by the sink. Her stomach was a big hole that no longer felt hunger. She would put her clothes on again afterwards. They were her own clothes and she wanted to have them on. But first she had to sleep.

It was best to sleep.

Daddy had cut up the man and thrown the pieces into the sea.

She was still very thirsty.

Maybe Daddy was dead as well. He hadn’t come yet.