Punishment aka What Is Mine

SIXTY-EIGHT

It was two o’clock in the morning of Friday, June 9, 2000. A light rain fell from low clouds over Oslo. The meteorologists had promised no rain and mild nights, but it couldn’t be more than forty degrees outside. Johanne closed the door to the terrace. It felt like she hadn’t slept for a week. When she tried to follow the drops that slid in stages down the living-room window, she got a headache. Her lower back ached when she tried to stretch her body. But it was impossible to go to sleep all the same. At about hip height, she could clearly see a print of Kristiane’s hand on the glass against the undefined pattern of the rain outside. Chubby fingers spread out like petals in an uneven circle. Johanne stroked the handprint.

“Do you think Emilie will ever get over it?” she asked quietly.

“No. But she’s at home now. They wanted to keep her in the hospital, but her aunt refused. She’s a doctor herself and felt that the child would be better off at home. Emilie will be well looked after, Johanne.”

“But will she ever get over it?”

When she touched it lightly, carefully, she could swear she felt the warmth from Kristiane’s hand on the smooth glass.

“No. Why don’t you sit down?”

Johanne tried to smile.

“I’ve got a sore back.”

Adam rubbed his face and yawned loudly.

“Apparently, there was a terrible dispute about visitation rights,” he started to say halfway through the yawn. “Karsten Åsli has been trying to see his son since he was born, and the mother left the hospital the day before she was due to leave. They went through three different instances and five court hearings and she consistently claimed that Karsten Åsli was not suited to have care of the child. She was adamant that he was a dangerous man. Sigmund managed to get ahold of copies of all the documentation this afternoon. Karsten Åsli won his case straight down the line, but the mother challenged the judgment and brought interlocutory appeals, delayed the outcome… and finally just ran away. Abroad, presumably. It would seem that Karsten Åsli doesn’t know where. He contacted a private detective agency…”

Adam smiled without joy.

“… when the police just shrugged their shoulders and said there wasn’t much they could do. The detective agency invoiced him for sixty-five thousand kroner for a trip to Australia, which resulted in nothing more than a three-page report that said that Ellen Kverneland and her little boy were presumably not there either. The agency wanted to investigate some leads in Latin America, but Karsten Åsli didn’t have any more money. That’s about all we know at the moment. Maybe we’ll have a more complete picture in a day or two. Not a nice case.”

“No custody cases are nice,” said Johanne in a terse voice. “Why do you think I agreed to share the care of Kristiane?”

“I thought perhaps…”

She interrupted:

“This Ellen Kverneland was right, in other words. Not surprising she ran away. Karsten Åsli can’t exactly have promised to be the perfect father. It’s so difficult to get people to understand things like that in court. He had a clean record and obviously knew how to behave to make the right impression.”

“But the case itself, this dispute about custody, might have…”

“Made him psychopathic? No. Of course not.”

“That’s perhaps the worst thing,” said Adam. “That we’ll never know why he… who Karsten Åsli actually was. What he was. Why he did what he…”

Johanne slowly shook her head. The windowpane was cold against her fingertips now and she put her hands in her pockets.

“The worst thing is that three children are dead,” she said. “And that Emilie will probably never…”

She couldn’t bear to cry anymore. But her eyes filled up all the same, and she felt a cramp in her diaphragm that made her bend forward; she leaned her forehead against the window and tried to breathe slowly.

“You don’t know how Emilie will cope,” said Adam, and got up. “Time heals most wounds. At least, it can help us to live with them.”

“You saw her,” Johanne flared, and pulled away from the hand on her left shoulder. “Didn’t you see the state she was in? She will never be herself again. Never!”

She threw her arms around herself and rocked from side to side, with her head down, as if she was holding a baby in her arms.

Damaged goods, Warren had once said about a boy they had found after he’d been held hostage for five days. Those kids are damaged goods, you know.

The boy couldn’t speak, but the doctors said there was a good chance that he would regain the ability. It would just take time. They should also be able to do something about the damage to his rectum. It would just take time. Warren shook his head without emotion, shrugged his shoulders, and again exclaimed:

Damaged goods.

She was too young then, too young and in love and full of ambitions for a career in the FBI, so she said nothing.

“Can I stay the night?” said Adam.

She lifted her head.

“It’s late,” said Adam.

She tried to breathe. Something was caught in her throat and she froze.

“Can I?” asked Adam.

“On the sofa,” said Johanne, and swallowed. “You can sleep on the sofa, if you want.”

She was woken by a strip of sunlight squeezing its way in through the gap between the blinds and the window frame. She lay still for a long time, listening. The neighborhood was quiet; one or two birds had already started their day. The alarm clock said it was six o’clock. She had only slept for about three hours, but she got up all the same. It was only when she went to the bathroom that she remembered that Adam had stayed the night. She tiptoed out into the living room.

He was sleeping on his back with his mouth open, but there was no noise. The blanket had slipped half off to reveal a solid thigh. He had on blue boxer shorts and her football shirt. His arm was resting on the back of the sofa and his fingers were clutching the coarse material, as if he was holding on in order not to fall on the floor.

He was so like Warren on the outside. And yet so different in every other way.

One day I’ll tell you about Warren, she thought to herself. One day I’ll tell you what happened. But not yet. I think we’ve got plenty of time.

He grunted a bit and a small snort made his Adam’s apple jump. He turned over in his sleep to find a new position. The blanket fell to the floor. She carefully laid it over him again; she held her breath and tucked the red checkered blanket around him. Then she went into the study.

Sunlight streamed in through the window to the east and made it difficult to see. She pulled down the blinds and turned on her computer. The secretary at work had sent an e-mail, with five messages. Only one of them was important.

Aksel Seier was in Norway. He wanted to meet her and had left two numbers. One was for the Continental Hotel.

Johanne hadn’t thought about Aksel Seier since she’d found Emilie. Unni Kongsbakken’s story had been forgotten in that tomb on Snaubu farm. When Johanne had been wandering aimlessly through the streets of Oslo, before Adam picked her up and took her to the homemade bunker on top of a hill some miles northeast of Oslo, she had been uncertain what to do with the old lady’s story. If there was anything she could do.

All her doubts vanished now.

The story of Hedvig Gåsøy’s murder was Aksel Seier’s story. He owned it. Johanne would meet him, give him what was his and then take him to meet Alvhild. Only then would she be finished with Aksel Seier.

Johanne turned around. Adam was standing barefoot in the doorway. He was scratching his belly and gave a lopsided smile.

“It’s early. Really early. Should I make coffee?”

Without waiting for an answer he padded over to her and cupped her face in his hands. He didn’t kiss her, but he was still smiling, more broadly now, and Johanne felt a fresh morning breeze coming in through the half-open window, stroking her legs through her pajamas. The summer the meteorologists had promised for so long was finally here.

“I think it’s going to be a lovely day,” said Adam, and didn’t let go of her. “I think summer is finally here, Johanne.”